Mary and her father were both touched by the recital of the young man.

"Oh, Geronimo," exclaimed Mary, "may God bless you for having been so compassionate to the poor Christian slave!"

"You did well, Geronimo," said Mr. Van de Werve, "and I esteem and love you more for your generosity to the unfortunate blind woman. How happy her unexpected liberation must have made her!"

"When I told her she was free, and that she could accompany me to her native land, she was almost wild with joy; she laughed and wept by turns; she cast herself upon the ground, and raising her hands to heaven, thanked God; she embraced my knees and watered my feet with her tears. Not knowing how to testify her gratitude, she drew this strange amulet from her bosom and presented it to me, conjuring me to wear it always. She told me that it possessed the power of protecting and saving the one who carried it on his person, when all human aid failed or was insufficient. As to the origin of the amulet, she only knew that it had been brought back from Jerusalem by one of her ancestors, who had made a pilgrimage thither in expiation of an involuntary homicide, and from that time it had been, religiously guarded in their family as a precious relic. She had no doubt of its power, and related many strange things to justify her faith. She maintained that she owed to the amulet her unexpected return to Italy."

"Does she still live?" asked Mary.

"When in sight of Italy, I put her on board of a boat bound to Porto Fiero; I gave her a small sum of money, and begged the boatman to attend to her comforts. Poor Teresa Mostajo—that is her name—I doubt not, is living peacefully in her native village, and prays much for me. This is the only reason why I attribute any virtue to the amulet; I believe in the protection of this sign because it has been sanctified by an act of Christian charity, and by the grateful prayers of the poor blind woman tormented by the pagans for the name of Christ."

The old cavalier remained a moment silent, absorbed in thought. Then taking the hand of the young man, he said to him: "I did not know you before, Geronimo. I hope it may be in my power to prove to you how much your generosity ennobles you and elevates you in my esteem; but although your confidence in the amulet rests on so laudable a sentiment, I would not rely too much upon it. You know the proverb says: 'Help yourself, and Heaven will help you.'"

"Do not suppose, Mr. Van de Werve, that on that account I would be guilty of any foolish imprudence. I know that the eye and sword are good sentinels. When I pass through the streets at night, I am always well accompanied, and my hand never leaves the hilt of my sword. Therefore have no anxiety on this point, and permit me to perform my duty to her to whom I owe homage and respect."

At that moment the painted—glass windows trembled under the stroke of a large clock from some neighboring belfry. This suddenly turned Mary's thoughts into another channel.

"The clock of St. James is striking ten," she said.

"Father, will you walk with me to the dock-yard to see if any new ships have arrived?"

"What is the hour of high tide?" her father asked Geronimo.

"At noon," he replied.

"Why need we go so soon to the dock-yard?" asked the old cavalier. "Many days may yet pass before the Il Salvatore appears in the Scheldt. Do not fear, Mary, that the Signor Deodati will take us by surprise. Don Pezoa, the agent of the king of Portugal, has given orders that I shall be notified as soon as the galley we are awaiting is signaled in the river, at noon."

He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who announced that the
Chevalier John Van Schoonhoven,[8] the bailiff, desired to speak with him.

Geronimo was about to withdraw, but Mr. Van de Werve said to him, cordially:

"Remain, signor; I will send Petronilla, Mary's duenna as a companion for her; the interview with the Chevalier Schoonhoven may not detain me long. We will afterwards go to the dock-yard, and we will at least enjoy the fine weather. Stay, I beg you."

Hardly had he left the hall when an old woman entered, and seated herself near the door. She drew a chaplet from her pocket, and commenced praying in a low voice. This was apparently an habitual act with her, for neither the young girl nor the young man took the least notice of the duenna.

Mary approached her lover, and said, gaily: "Rejoice, Geronimo! My father has just promised not to propose very heavy conditions to your uncle."

"I am most grateful for his kindness," said the young man, sadly.

"What can be the matter?" asked Mary, surprised by his indifference. "I noticed you were depressed when you first came. Be more hopeful; perhaps the Il Salvatore will ascend the Scheldt to-day."

"God grant it may not arrive!" said Geronimo, heaving a deep sigh.

"Do you then fear your uncle's arrival?" exclaimed Mary, in an agitated voice.

"Do not speak so loud, Mary; your duenna must not hear what I am about to communicate to you. Yes; since yesterday morning I have dreaded my uncle's arrival. Previously I implored it of Heaven as the choicest blessing, and now the thought of it makes me tremble."

"Have you then heard from your uncle?"

"Alas! my friend, at the very moment when all seemed the brightest, when I was thanking God for a happiness which I thought already mine, a dark cloud comes to overshadow my life. I seem even now to hear my uncle's voice pronouncing the cruel sentence which condemns me to a life-long sorrow."

The young girl turned deadly pale, and anxiously awaited an explanation of the mystery.

"My beloved Mary," he whispered, "it is a secret which I can only confide to you in part, and which in strict honor I should perhaps conceal entirely. Four weeks ago a merchant, highly esteemed, was left by a curious train of circumstances without funds, and he begged me to lend him ten thousand crowns. Should I refuse his request, the credit of his house would be irretrievably ruined. His name I considered sufficient security for ten times the amount he wished to borrow. At all events, although it pained me to disobey my uncle's positive injunctions, I could not deny the assistance which was asked of me. I lent the ten thousand crowns, and obtained a receipt with a written promise of payment in one month. Yesterday the note fell due; my debtor asks a delay until to-morrow. I met him an hour ago, and he has not yet obtained the money."

"But if your debtor is rich and powerful, you need not indulge your fears to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, he will fulfil his promise," remarked the young girl, with ill-concealed anxiety.

"My fears may mislead me, Mary, but I am sure that my debtor's affairs are in a very bad condition. At his urgent entreaty I made no entry of the loan upon the books, in order to conceal the transaction from the clerks; but still I have not the amount in hand. O Mary! my uncle has an eagle eye in business affairs; he will at once discover the deficit of ten thousand crowns—a deficit resulting from my lending money: a thing he has always warned me against, and which, even recently, he strictly forbade. My uncle is a good father to me, but this act of disobedience is sufficient to deprive me forever of his favor. I foresee many future evils."

"Why were you so imprudent, Geronimo? You ought to have refused so large a loan."

"I could not possibly refuse, Mary."

"But you hold an acknowledgment of the debt and a promise of payment. Summon this