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230 her to undress, brought her some warm soup, and then left her to that quiet which was the greatest of luxuries. A soft, fresh air, but sweet as if it had just passed over flowers, came from the open lattice; the young Spaniard drew one deep breath of enjoyment, and sank languidly on her pillow. In another moment she was asleep. She slept for some hours. When she awoke, her apartment was filled with the warm crimson atmosphere of sunset—rich rose-stains fell on the wall and floor, which, even as she looked, grew fainter—and gradually the purple obscurity was only broken by the shadowy outline of a creeping and odoriferous shrub which had been trained round the casement. Suddenly a sound of music rose upon the air—it was the even-song of the convent; the notes of the organ and young sweet voices mingled in the hymn. The music—the fragrance of the flowers, whose odour was exhaling in the now falling dew—the languor of recent exertion—the sense of past dangers and present security—operated on Beatrice like the first and delicious stage of an opiate. All that was soothing in her hopes—all that was endearing to her memory, rose in their most