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sions to remain with her were fruitless: he quitted her a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He exerted himself to the utmost in forwarding my search: but our united endeavours were unattended by success. The retreat which concealed Agnes remained an impenetrable mystery, and I began to abandon all hopes of recovering her.
About eight months ago I was returning to my hotel in a melancholy humour, having passed the evening at the play-house. The night was dark, and I was unaccompanied. Plunged in reflections which were far from being agreeable, I perceived not that three men had followed me from the theatre, till, on turning into an unfrequented street, they all attacked me at the same time with the utmost fury. I sprang back a few paces, drew my sword, and threw my cloak over my left arm. The obscurity of the night was in my favour. For the most part the blows of the assassins, being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at length wasfortunate
