CHAPTER VIII.
"See! the dappled gray coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, And chase it through the sky!" MARSTON.
Inez left her father's door as the last notes of the matin bell died away on the cool, clear morning air.

She held in her hand a silken scarf, which, according to the custom of her country, was thrown lightly across the head, and confined at the chin.
Beautiful she looked, with the feverish glow on her cheek, and her large Spanish eyes, restless and piercing, flashing out at times the thoughts of her inmost soul.

She threw the mantilla round her head, and turned toward the church.

The step was firm yet hasty.

She seemed endeavoring to escape from herself.
The streets were silent and the Plaza deserted, and naught seemed stirring save the swallows that twittered and circled round and round the belfry of the church.