Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poniard had answered but too well the purpose of its employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that she never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern expressed upon Lorenzo’s countenance, the frantic fondness of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries respecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections were her own. She would not be removed from the vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her death; and she was unwilling to lose those moments which she passed in receiving proofs of Lorenzo’s love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had she still been undefiled she might have lamented the loss of life; but that deprived of honour and branded with shame, death was to her a blessing: she could not have been his wife, and that hope being denied her, she resigned herself to the grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him take courage, conjured him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared that she mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo’s grief, she continued to converse with him till the moment of dissolution.

She lay, her head reclining upon Lorenzo’s bosom, and her lips still murmuring to him words of comfort. She was interrupted by the convent bell, as tolling at a distance, it struck the hour. Suddenly Antonia’s eyes sparkled with celestial brightness: her frame seemed to have received new strength and animation. She started from her lover’s arms.

“Three o’clock!” she cried; “Mother, I come!”

She clasped her hands, and sank lifeless upon the ground. Lorenzo in agony threw himself beside her: he tore his hair, beat his breast, and refused to be separated from the corse. At length his force being exhausted, he suffered himself to be led from the vault, and was conveyed to the Palace de Medina scarcely more alive than the unfortunate Antonia.