Indeed I may add, without the
imputation of vanity or presumption, that I am as well acquainted as
himself with every event of his extraordinary existence; and that your
curiosity, if excited at all about him, could be gratified by none so
amply and faithfully as by myself.”--“I thank you, Senhor,” answered Don
Francisco, whose blood seemed congealing in his veins at the voice and
expression of the stranger, he knew not why--“I thank you, but my
curiosity has been completely satisfied by the narrative I have already
listened to. The night is far spent, and I have to pursue my journey
to-morrow; I will therefore defer hearing the particulars you offer to
gratify me with till our next meeting.”

“As he spoke, he rose from his seat, hoping that this action would
intimate to the intruder, that his presence was no longer desirable. The
latter continued, in spite of the intimation, fixed in his seat. At
length, starting as if from a trance, he exclaimed, “When shall our next
meeting be?”

“Don Francisco, who did not feel particularly anxious to renew the
intimacy, slightly mentioned, that he was on his journey to the
neighbourhood of Madrid, where his family, whom he had not seen for many
years, resided--that the stages of his journey were uncertain, as he
would be obliged to wait for communications from a friend and future
relative,--(he alluded to Montilla his intended son-in-law, and as he
spoke, the stranger gave a peculiar smile),--and also from certain
mercantile correspondents, whose letters were of the utmost importance. Finally, he added, in a disturbed tone, (for the awe of the stranger’s
presence hung round him like a chilling atmosphere, and seemed to freeze
even his words as they issued from his mouth), he could
not--easily--tell when he might again have the honour of meeting the
stranger. “You cannot,” said the stranger, rising and drawing his mantle
over one shoulder, while his reverted eyes glanced fearfully on the pale
auditor--“You cannot,--but I can. Don Francisco di Aliaga, we shall meet
to-morrow night!”

“As he spoke, he still continued to stand near the door, fixing on
Aliaga eyes whose light seemed to burn more intensely amid the dimness
of the wretched apartment. Aliaga had risen also, and was gazing on his
strange visitor with dim and troubled vision,--when the latter, suddenly
retreating from the door, approached him and said, in a stifled and
mysterious whisper, “Would you wish to witness the fate of those whose
curiosity or presumption breaks on the secrets of that mysterious being,
and dares to touch the folds of the veil in which his destiny has been
enshrouded by eternity? If you do, look here!” And as he spoke, he
pointed to a door which Don Francisco well remembered to be that which
the person whom he had met at the inn the preceding evening, and who had
related to him the tale of Guzman’s family, (or rather relatives), had
retired by. Obeying mechanically the waving of the arm, and the
beckoning of the stranger’s awful eye, rather than the impulse of his
own will, Aliaga followed him. They entered the apartment; it was
narrow, and dark, and empty. The stranger held a candle aloft, whose dim
light fell on a wretched bed, where lay what had been the form of a
living man within a few hours. “Look there!” said the stranger; and
Aliaga with horror beheld the figure of the being who had been
conversing with him the preceding part of that very evening,--extended a
corse! “Advance--look--observe!” said the stranger, tearing off the sheet which
had been the only covering of the sleeper who had now sunk into the long
and last slumber--“There is no mark of violence, no distortion of
feature, or convulsion of limb--no hand of man was on him. He sought the
possession of a desperate secret--he obtained it, but he paid for it the
dreadful price that can be paid but once by mortals. So perish those
whose presumption exceeds their power!”

“Aliaga, as he beheld the body, and heard the words of the stranger,
felt himself disposed to summon the inmates of the house, and accuse the
stranger of murder; but the natural cowardice of a mercantile spirit,
mingled with other feelings which he could not analyse, and dared not
own, withheld him,--and he continued to gaze alternately on the corse
and the corse-like stranger. The latter, after pointing emphatically to
the body, as if intimating the danger of imprudent curiosity, or
unavailing disclosure, repeated the words, “We meet again to-morrow
night!” and departed. “Aliaga, overcome by fatigue and emotion, sunk down by the corse, and
remained in that trance-like state till the servants of the inn entered
the room. They were shocked to find a dead body in the bed, and scarce
less shocked at the death-like state in which they found Aliaga. His
known wealth and distinction procured for him those attentions which
otherwise their terrors or their suspicions might have withheld. A sheet
was cast over the body, and Aliaga was conveyed to another apartment,
and attended sedulously by the domestics. “In the mean time, the Alcaide arrived; and having learned that the
person who had died suddenly in the inn was one totally unknown, as
being only a writer, and a man of no importance in public or private
life, and that the person found near his bed in a passive stupor was a
wealthy merchant,--snatched, with some trepidation, the pen from the
ink-horn which hung at his button-hole, and sketched the record of this
sapient inquest:---- “That a guest had died in the house, none could
deny; but no one could suspect Don Francisco di Aliaga of murder.”

“As Don Francisco mounted his mule the following day, on the strength of
this just verdict, a person, who did not apparently belong to the house,
was particularly solicitous in adjusting his stirrups, &c.; and while
the obsequious Alcaide bowed oft and profoundly to the wealthy merchant,
(whose liberality he had amply experienced for the favourable colour he
had given to the strong circumstantial evidence against him), this
person whispered, in a voice that reached only the ears of Don
Francisco, “We meet to-night!”

“Don Francisco checked his mule as he heard the words. He looked round
him--the speaker was gone. Don Francisco rode on with a feeling known to
few, and which those who have felt are perhaps the least willing to
communicate. CHAPTER XXIX. Χαλεπον δε το φιλησαι·
    χαλεπον το μη φιλησαι·
    χαλεπωτερον δε παντων
    αποτυγχανειν φιλουντα. “Don Francisco rode on most of that day. The weather was mild, and his
servants holding occasionally large umbrellas over him as he rode,
rendered travelling supportable.