A shout of savage exultation rent the air as Roderigo Calderon, Marquis de Siete Iglesias, appeared upon the scaffold But, when the eyes of the multitude rested--not upon that lofty and stately form, in all the pride of manhood, which they had been accustomed to associate with their fears of the stern genius and iron power of the favourite--but upon a bent and spectral figure, that seemed already on the verge of a natural grave, with a face ploughed deep with traces of unutterable woe, and hollow eyes that looked with dim and scarce conscious light over the human sea that murmured and swayed below, the tide of the popular emotion changed; to rage and triumph succeeded shame and pity.

Not a hand was lifted up in accusation--not a voice was raised in rebuke or joy.

Beside Calderon stood the appointed priest, whispering cheer and consolation.
"Fear not, my son," said the holy man.

"The pang of the body strikes years of purgatory from thy doom.

Think of this, and bless even the agony of this hour." "Yes," muttered Calderon; "I do bless this hour.