ed to proceed. For a long time his search was fruitless. At last, after many turnings and windings, he arrived at a glade in the wood, in the centre of which lay, on the turf, a man, who invited him by signs to approach. Fray Epigmenio hesitated a moment. At last, having crossed himself devoutly, he falteringly approached the wounded man. 'In God's name,' cried he, 'of what unfortunate accident are you the victim?' The holy name of God appeared to rouse in the stranger a painful emotion, and his voice was hardly perceptible when he told Epigmenio that, as he was traveling with his daughter, he had been set upon by robbers, stripped of all he had, and left bleeding on the ground. He added that it was not for himself that he was asking assistance, but for the feeble creature by his side; and, at the same time, parting the branches of a bush near which he lay, he showed the monk a young lady lying in a swoon upon the grass. The rays of the moon fell full upon her marble countenance and white dress. You may imagine the confusion Epigmenio was in when he saw this beautiful female, who seemed to realize to him the most beautiful visions of his dreams. After a short silence, he represented to the stranger that the convent of the Desierto was not far off; but, were it nearer, a female could not be received within its walls. The unknown was grieved that he could not continue his journey, as his horse had escaped when the robbers attacked him. Plucking up his spirits, he declared, as his wound now gave him less pain, he would like to rise and seek for his lost steed. They set out together, but soon after agreed to separate, and—"
A blinding flash of lightning interrupted the monk's story. The storm was increasing. The muddy wa-
