CHAPTER II.

"It is late, and that castle seems lulled in sleep, But within its walls are tapers gleaming; And along its apartments the females creep, With steps all hush'd, and eyes that are streaming."

For oh! softly glides that serpent, whose sting is the surest death; and smooth shows that dark water, which has blackest rocks beneath it. There is silence, and calmness, and all is still, without the walls of the Arestino Palace; but a volcano of fever and of passion--of fierceness, rage, and fury--flames within!

It is night, and the lady of that bright palace lies upon a bed from which she never more must rise! Is it the course of age--Nature's slow wane--that calls upon the lady?--No! She shows yet in beauty's fullest--loveliest--prime. Her youth has seen its spring, but scarce yet fallen into summer. July has yet to come, though May has passed from us! And all that was the opening blossom--bud of love--now revels in the glorious flower. Not age? Not age. Why then--the plague?--Why ay--the plague! for there be other plagues--is it not so--than pestilence? There is the fire that burns, and the famine that pines us--the sun-stroke that withers, the tempest to wreck--there is the mildew that blasts, and the quicksand that swallows--there are floods--lightnings--hurricanes--earthquakes--fear ye for these? Alas! for every one poor life that dies by such slight accidents--think!--think of ambition--envy--avarice--false honour--glory in arms--the lust of beauty--pride--the thirst of power--the zealot's triumph--and the soldier's dreams!--for every single wretch, since order first arose, that perished, cut off by nature's shock or violence--how many thousands--say!--have drawn their timeless fates from that worst spring of human woe, the human heart?

Alas! alas! Yet why is the lady thus passing--untouched by sickness--in the pride of youth? Enough--enough! she sleeps--or shortly shall do so. Oh, gentle Death, there is no sleep blest and secure but thine! Revenge! "'tis Heaven's prerogative, not ours." So say divines; but men think otherwise when injury stirs them. Now, all her crimes, with all her charms, rest in eternal silence! Has the owl shrieked, or the bat struck on the window? No! these are the death-tokens of sterner regions. But the livelong night yon thistlefinch has sung under the casement--she sings the last dirge of the Lady of Arestino! Yet the lady's fault was common in the land where she lived. Common? Ay, common! Common as the penalty--she is dying--which has followed it.

She dies! and justly--let her meet her doom! She is the ruin of a name that never knew reproach before. The honour of a noble house is gone--their shield is sullied! Blood may wash out the spot--but what the stain? Scorn crooks her white lip, and says, "That shall endure for ever!"

And if, for such a crime, blood must be spilled--what slave is he denies that blood should be the blood of woman?--For man--ay, smile!--he has wronged me. And though his body were a poisonous plant that it were death to touch, I'd cast myself upon it! cut--carve it--to morsels--motes. He dies, though LIFE died with him--for I am suffering! but--in death--he shall have justice.

Man wars on man. It is his instinct--compact. He injures--stabs me! Granted. What should stay him? Is it love for his fellow--kindness --charity? What will--for "love" or "charity"--that "fellow" do for him? Will he honour in poverty? Defend in danger? Abstain to prey upon when time shall serve? No!--none of these, methinks. He may deride his weakness; insult his misery; publish for sport the tale that maddens him; maltreat and crush, as far as strength and law will serve! Away then with the jest of "Duty"--my "Practice" towards my neighbour is to eye him as my spoil!

Man breaks no faith with man, for he has pledged none. He casts away no fame, no reputation. He does not wreck the heart that blindly trusted--leaned upon--him. He does not, for an hour's indulgence, whim, or vanity, give up all honour--name--esteem--respect--rank --kindred--friends--the world--for ever! This is the sacrifice that woman offers. Let her demand it from her lover--see if he dares to make it? Ask him--let the mistress that he sues to ask him!--to lie--to beg--to steal--to take a blow--be branded as a wretch--shunned by the honoured of his own sex--scorned even by the worthy of the other? His answer is--that he can bleed--can die--can give up fortune--hope--nay, even her love--but may not lose his _caste_--live in the world's contempt--his own disgust--for ever.

Yet fate had dealt harshly with the lady of Arestino! She was a wife, but she was the unwooed, unwilling wife of a proud and unfeeling husband. Eight years she had been wedded, and eight years her heart had slept as dead; or, waking, waked but to swell with sullen bitterness against that power by which its rights had been despised. He who is wise, though his self-love may suffer, makes his wooing otherwise than this. He will not trust his all of hope in life to one whose every hope in life himself has blasted! Ye who seek service, love, or safety, seek it with the free! Will ye have chains?--then look that they be chains of adamant! ye made a traitor when ye made a slave.

* * * * *

Chained to the twisted roots of a tall willow which hung its branches across the stream, and almost hidden from view by the drapery of weeping foliage that surrounded it, a light skiff lay pulling in the soft current of the Arno. Towards this point the travellers made their way with rapid and anxious steps, and, as if by common agreement, both in silence. The Chevalier, pressing strongly through the low copsewood, was the first that reached it; and when he saw the stream, and the small boat rippling upon it, he never spoke one word, but drew a long-repressed breath, as of one relieved from much apprehension, and forthwith fell upon his knees, and returned thanks to Heaven. For a gleam of hope seemed to make it possible that his journey might yet be a fortunate one; and though the business was such as Heaven might scarcely countenance, yet the Chevalier had a kind heart, and was a good Catholic; and he could not help feeling that gratitude was due somewhere. And, for the rest, he had no nice scruples, or reserves of pride, that he should check his feelings in the sight of his domestic; for those were days in which the distinctions of rank made no question; they were understood and settled; and a nobleman might even pray to God by the side of his vassal, without looking for assumption, or supposing any infraction of his dignity.

But it was on the north bank of the river that the Chevalier and his attendant had halted. It was hard upon the hour of midnight now, and the moon was up, for she was near her full; and the prospect which, under her broad light, presented itself, southward and west of Florence, over one of the richest plains of Italy, was singularly opposed to the scene of ruin and desertion which had exhibited itself in the country eastward of the city. On their left, winding along the stream, lay the "City of Flowers" itself, glorious and rich as ever, even in that brief distance. The work of man remained entire, where man himself was fallen; and the tall spires of the Italian churches glittered with their gilded vanes in the cold moonshine, as they lightly shot upwards, towering into the clear blue sky. In front was the south bank of the Arno, scarce three bow-shots across--crowded with splendid palaces and villas--the chosen seat of half the great and gay of Florence. And this spot, by some wild hazard or caprice, the pestilence had scarcely touched on. It might be that the west winds, which had prevailed almost constantly since the commencement of the malady, had carried the city's infection in an opposite course; but certainly all here was safe--all lived and flourished.

The rich moonlight played among the trellised vines, and trembled in the orange groves in the wide gardens of these mansions, which stretched themselves, sloping downwards, to the very margin of the river. The lilies that grew in the last flower-bed bent their white necks as they sprang to kiss the stream; and the perfume which they exhaled rose the sweeter from its cool freshness.

And the Arno itself was no tide-water, no stream for traffic here. Though bolder and deeper, then, at the bridge of Florence, than its current flows at present, yet the little draught that was carried upon it never came above the city. A light breeze from the southward had just swept the mist from the surface of the water; and the white fleeces of weed which floated on its shallows, gently waving with the motion of the stream, gave lustre by their contrast to the deeper blue tint of those calm, unruffled, basin-like, unfathomable pools, which seemed to drink up the strong light from above, rather than to reflect it, so glorious was the brightness of the scene. There was a calm, a repose, at that hour, on the banks of that bright river, as if peace and safety had reigned throughout the world. Yet the silence was not the silence of desolation--it was not the repose of death--but the repose of nature sleeping. The soul felt as though it could lie down for ever upon those green banks, content, and happy, and at rest; and a voice seemed to float across the bright still water, calling on it to come and dwell beneath its lucid deepness.

But there are minds to which repose must live a stranger; hearts which in the tomb alone can hope for slumber, or the folding of the hands to sleep: the eye of the Chevalier Di Vasari gazed on the mild scene before him, but in his soul there was a fever which defied its influence. Two months before, and at that same hour, he had stood, as he stood now, upon the banks of the Arno; he had crossed that river then to fly from Florence, pursued by danger, and struggling for his life. He now returned. For what?--for love, or vengeance? What was his hope--his wish? He scarce knew what. End as his errand might, it must be in perplexity, in wretchedness!

It was no time, however, then, for thought. A task was to be done; the hour was arrived, and the way lay open before him. Passing his horse's rein to his attendant, he first loosened the long cloak from his shoulder, and cast it over the loins of the reeking, yet still untired brute. "Poor Bayard!" he said, patting the gallant animal's neck, who thrust his nose against his master's breast, as if acknowledging the attention, "you have striven hard to-night for a work in which you have but little interest! Look to him well, Jacopo," continued the Chevalier; "and--take my sword also--see that your own horse be well clothed up, for they are sweating both; and when the day breaks, the air from the river here will be cold and chilly."

"Your lordship will not go quite unarmed?" said the domestic, as he took the offered sword from his master's hand.

"I scarcely know that," returned the latter, in a melancholy tone. "A light foot, and the skill of a physician, would be the gifts most like to aid me now. But should I need defence, which Heaven avert, my poniard here, Jacopo, would be the better weapon, which lies as close and silent till I want its service, next my own heart, as it would do the next moment within that of my enemy."

As he spoke, the Chevalier drew from its sheath (within his vest) a dagger of unusual breadth and strength, and rich and costly workmanship. The handle of the weapon was of gold embossed; the sheath of the same metal, set with jewels; the blade of pure Damascus steel, but wrought with curious emblems. It was an heirloom in the family of Di Vasari, brought from the East by their first ancestor, famous in the wars of Spain and of the Crusades; and for eight score years, sleeping or waking, that dagger had never left the bosom of the leader of their house.

"This is defence--more than defence enough!" said the Chevalier, as he slowly replaced the instrument in its scabbard. The broad blade flashed as he waved it in the moonlight; and the name of the first proprietor, "DI VASARI" showed in cold, dull characters, like unpolished silver, worked upon the dark unburnished steel.

At that moment the deep tones of the great bell at the Duomo chimed midnight. The Chevalier drew his boat shoreward, and cast off the fastening which confined it.

"Sleep not, Jacopo, I charge you!" were his last words. "Look to our horses carefully. It is three hours yet to daylight; and within two, at farthest, expect my return."

A long low neigh from the black horse Bayard followed the skiff as it pushed off from the shore. Silently, yet swiftly, as it cut through the glassy water, the fish were scared that fed or sported at the bottom. Plunging from sedge and shallow, they turned their broad sides to the moonlight, as they shot along; and showed, exaggerated in the liquid medium as by a lens, to twenty times their real bulk.

Still the oars touched the stream lightly; there was no plash, no rolling in the thowls; they scarcely broke the water as they dipped. Jacopo marked his master's progress steadfastly till the boat gained the centre of the stream. A small islet, planted with willow and acacia, here broke the view across; the little skiff shot round it like a swallow on the wing, but then could be discerned no farther.

"Be quiet, knave!" exclaimed the valet, checking a second neigh of anxiety from the black horse, as the bark disappeared. "I doubt I had better make thee fast yet, or thou'lt be off into the river after our master, and leave me here behind." He unbitted both the horses, loosened the girths of their heavy saddles, and clothing them as well as he might with the spare mantello and their own housings, fed them copiously with meal that had been brought along. Then, first feeling for the rosary within the breast of his garment, he drew his good broadsword from its scabbard, gave a last glance to see that his beasts were in safety, and seated himself, with his face to the river, at the foot of the most convenient tree he could select. And in this position, well on the alert to guard against surprise, and recommending himself especially to the protection of St Jago, with his weapon in one hand, and his wine-flask in the other, in silence he expected the event.

* * * * *

It was a chamber for luxury to dwell in, that in which the Countess Arestino lay, suited to tastes which knew no limit but their will, and decked for climates to which winter was a stranger. The walls were hung with draperies of pale-blue silk; richly wrought carpets--the treasures of the East--were spread at intervals upon the floor of shining marble. Oil from the Tuscan olive, mixed with frankincense and myrrh, burned in silver lamps, whose pale flames lighted the lofty chamber without sullying its delicious coolness. And in every window, flowers disposed in vases of alabaster, each carved with the work of half an artist's life, loaded the light breeze which whispered through the lattice with the richest odours of the season.

The painting of the roof--alone a masterpiece!--was executed by such hands as already, if not noble, claimed little less than noble's deference, and showed more even than noble's pride. The mattressed couches, ranged around the chamber, suiting in colour with its pale-blue tapestry, were of a satin, rich, and quaintly patterned, and bordered with embroidery of flowering silver. And those couches, with their pillows of down and velvet--light and elastic as they bounded to the touch--were harsh and rude compared with the bed on which the Countess lay--but she slept not.

"Giuletta! Giuletta! The twelfth hour is passed, and still comes he not? Camilla--Girl, canst thou hear nothing--is Camilla surely at the gate?"

"What, nothing! why then the messenger----? Yet he had _not_ failed; it was impossible!"

"The danger, perhaps?" doubtfully whispered a dark-haired girl, who watched beside the turret-stair.

"Danger! When had Lorenzo di Vasari gone back for danger!"

"Sickness?"

"Why, sickness?----Yet, no--no--he was not sick--it was not that!--Once more, Giuletta--for mercy! How sayest thou! All is silent still? Then he would not come! He was false--faithless--perjured--fled to his new minion--wedded to another!--Why, rather than that, let him have died--have perished! by plague--by flood--by fire--by knife or poison! Was not she, the Countess, dying--(and did she shrink to die?)--dying for the love she had borne him? Let her behold him lifeless! Mark his last gasp! Hear his last sigh! Know that he died without help--without hope--but let her not know him the husband of Perline di Francavilla!"

Following on that last word, like its response or echo--raised, spell-like, by its utterance--a distant foot is heard upon the winding turret-stair. Light as it falls, the Countess's ear has caught and recognised it! Low as it treads, the rush with which it comes is that of lightning. In one moment more the tapestried door has flown open--a cavalier, hurried and travel-worn, flings himself by the Countess's bedside. The door is closed; the attendant has left the chamber; the Knight has redeemed his faith; and the lady and her lover--it is for the last time--are to be alone together!

The Chevalier di Vasari held his lady's hand clasped within both his own; and he so held it long, and spoke not. He pressed it to his burning forehead, not to his lips; his face was buried in the drapery of the bed by which he knelt; and his sobs, although repressed with pain, were deep and audible. Justly condemned by his mistress, or unjustly; false to his vows, or true; he was at least no lover of profession, no idler, who gained and flung away for pride: but what he felt, he spoke right on, whether from the heart or from the senses (which are nearer akin, perhaps, in the purest passion, than philosophers will admit); and if he had changed--why was it, but because, in love, there can be no such pledge as "Constancy?" because men can hold no control over an emotion which is as involuntary as their laughter or their tears;--and because he who promises, but for one day, the continuance of his passion to a woman--if he were to promise the continuance of life, might as well have the power to perform!

And if Love, as sure he is so, be the child of accident--of situation; warmed in this hour, and cherished by that which chills and wastes him in the next; aided to-day by absence, which makes that precious which possession held too cheap; to-morrow, triumphing by that very presence which overcomes, when at a distance we might have denied;--if these be truths--as sure they are--take one truth more, and let who can gainsay it--love, born amidst zephyrs, lives but in a storm! Flowers may charm; but these have thorns; which, cease to pique, and he will cease to worship them. Pain is his food, of life--far more than pleasure! mistresses or wives, the women who goad us to distraction are those ever from whom we have the hardest task to part. Di Vasari was of that age, and of that temperament, in which absence was likely to weaken a passion rather than increase it. We sigh to Eugenia of Sophia's coldness, and end in forgetting Sophia altogether! But the heart that wanders is not lost for ever. He had quitted Florence with unwillingness--in horror--almost in despair. Quitted it only, at last, because, unhappily, his stay might have aggravated those dangers which were past his hope to aid. And was it in man, now, that he could look upon that beautiful form--that form which he had so loved, so worshipped--and fancy but the possibility of its destruction--of its decay! See those dark eyes, into which he had so often gazed for hope and happiness--their lustre yet undimmed, but shining over a pallid cheek, and soon to shine no more! That long black hair which flowed in ringlets down a neck so full and white! Those fair round arms and polished throat--these are charms to live, and still have power, long after the transient red and white, which charms the first observer, is familiar! Could he behold his mistress--so young and beauteous still--so soon to be resigned for ever--now before him, and not forget that any other woman lived, on whom he ever had bestowed a thought? not feel that, without her life--her love--her safety--life--all the world--to him, would be no longer worth possessing?

The Countess gazed upon her lover as he knelt; and she, too, for a long space, gazed without speaking; for with her, far less than even with Di Vasari, was there that full indulgence of grief which soothes and satisfies the heart: but her thoughts were those of doubt--and fancied wrong--and wounded pride--and passion scorned or slighted. Fierce as had been the paroxysms which that day had convulsed and shaken her; bodily pain, and mental suffering; her pride still towered over all; her beauty showed untainted! Scorning death in his triumph; hating his approach, yet smiling on it; never more carefully than in that hour--her last of life--had the Countess's toilet been adjusted. Her force of mind, and feverish heat of purpose, rose even above the anodynes which gave her a temporary release from personal suffering. Excited as she already was by passion, almost to frenzy, the very narcotics which should have deadened the brain's action, turned to stimulants, and served only to add new fury to its purpose. Her cheek had lost its tint of freshness. Her eyes, that glistened with tears repressed, had something of wildness in their expression. And her lips had faded from their ruby hue. But, other than this, her beauty was still uninjured; all her features were full and animated; it was scarce possible to contemplate her as a being who in a few hours should cease to move--to think--to have intent--existence.

At length the Countess spoke. Her hand lay passive in her lover's grasp. But it was cold--damp--and nerveless--trembling;--it suffered, not returned, his ardent pressure. "You would see me once more then, Lorenzo?" she said; and her words were uttered with pain and difficulty. For though her features remained unmoved, her eyes were blind with tears; and the tone of her voice was more terrible in its hollow, wilful steadiness, than if she had at once resigned the contest, and given way to the storm of grief that overwhelmed her.--"You have left Arezzo, and safety, and your new bride that shall be, to watch the last moments of one who can now no more be worth your thinking of; but who, whatever may be the faults she has to answer for, dies for one only, Lorenzo,--the fault of having loved you!"

The Chevalier's cheek was paler even than that of the Countess. His voice was drowned with sobs--he could not speak--the words choked him in their utterance. He lifted his face from the velvet covering in which it had lain buried--he clasped his hands together;--the hand of the Countess fell from his grasp.--"And is there then," at last he said, "oh God!--is there then, Angiolina, indeed no hope?"

"For me, Lorenzo," said the Countess, "there is no hope. Worlds could not purchase for me another hour's life. We meet now for the last time! You are ill, Lorenzo,--you have travelled far--I should not have sent to you--I trouble you too much. But I am going on a long journey--a travel from which I shall not return. I am a weak creature--too weak--but I am dying. Bless you, Lorenzo, for thinking of me this once! I shall die now content--content and happy. For I shall not have seen him, for whom I sacrificed both life and honour--while I still lived--devoted to another."

Avarice, ambition, terror, may have mercy; but there is one passion lurks within the human breast, whose very instinct's murder. Once lodged within the heart, for life it rules--ascendant and alone! Sports in the solitude like an antic fiend; it feeds on blood, and rivers would not sate its appetite. Minds strongest in worth and valour stoop to meanness and disgrace before it. The meanest soul--the weakest--it can give courage to, beyond the daring of despair! What is the sting which no balm can assuage? What is the wound that death alone can heal? What is the injury that--once done--can never be repaired? whose is the sword that, once when drawn, the scabbard must be cast away for ever? When is it that man has no ear but for the tale that falls like molten lead upon his brain; no eye but for the plucked-out heart of him he hates; no hand but for that clutch--that one last clutch--which earth may not resist--that gripes his dagger? Who is it that bears about him a life, horrible to himself, and dangerous to the world? Who has been wise, yet now will cast away reason?--was kind and pitiful, yet mimics the humanity of the wild dog? Who is it hews his foe to mammocks; writes "Acquittal" on his tomb--and dies? Who is it that stabs, yet will not blame; drinks--as his draught of life--another's blood; yet feels there is but one relief--to shed his own? That wretch is JEALOUS! Oh! talk not of remembrance--consciousness beyond the grave!--once sleeping, let the jealous never wake again! Pity him, whatever his crimes! Were they ten thousand fathom past the reach of mercy, they are punished. The gamester whose last piece is lost--the merchant whose whole risk the sea has swallowed up--the child whose air-bubble has burst,--may each create a bauble like the former! But he whose treasure was in woman's love; who trusted as men once trust, and was deceived!--that hope once gone! weep--search--regret--despair--seek thyself blind--there is again no finding--no restoring it! Woman! symbol of woe, and nature's weakness! gamester of hope and happiness! thy love must be integral--single--perfect--or be nothing. Like the glass toy that has amused thy childhood, entire it sparkles, shining, bright, and precious; but from the farthest thread--the finest--break off but one fibre--it is gone--form--shape--design--material--substance! That flaw has shivered it to countless atoms; and where the jewel was, a heap of dust, which men despise and trample on, alone remains!

"Lorenzo!" said the Countess, in a hurried tone,--"Lorenzo, a chill is creeping over me. It is cold now--cold as the grave--I feel that I am dying. It is terrible, Lorenzo, to die so young! You will pray for me, though you have ceased to love me? Think of me, once more--only once--when Perline di Francavilla is your happy bride. Do not let her triumph too far; but think of me even on your bridal day, one moment, before you forget me for ever. For then, oh, Lorenzo--then--I shall be a thing fit only to forget. A poor, passive, nameless thing, beyond the reach of memory or sensation. And the tears of my friends, and the triumph of my foes, will be alike; for they will both be unknown and unnoticed by me."

"Angiolina!" cried the Chevalier, "if you would not destroy me quite, have mercy!"

"Have you not now come from Arezzo, Di Vasari?"

There are moments in which, even to serve its need, the heart revolts from falsehood.--There was no answer. "Have you not daily seen Perline di Francavilla there? Have you not--perjured as you are--have you not pledged your false heart to her?"

"Then, never--by all my hopes in heaven!" exclaimed the Chevalier, urged almost beyond self-control; and changing his tone from that of sorrow almost into one of injury and recrimination--for if his conscience did not entirely acquit him of blame, yet neither was he guilty in the extent to which he was accused.--"Forced, by your own command--would I had never listened to it!--to quit Florence, chance more than purpose led me to Arezzo. If I have seen Perline di Francavilla there," continued the speaker--and here his voice did falter something--"it has been only in that common intercourse, which the long connection of our houses rendered unavoidable. But your token said, that you were in sickness--in danger--What was Perline, then, or all the world, to me? Am I not here to save--to perish for--Angiolina--to perish with you? For why should one live on, who now can live only to a sense of wretchedness! If I had wronged your trust--say that I had been light and thoughtless--he trifles with the richest gem in fancied safety, who hugs his treasure close, and feels its value when its loss is threatened. Angiolina, you have wronged me. You will regret to have done so; but my errand shall be fulfilled. I came to aid--to avenge--or perish with you."

The words of the Chevalier were wild; but he spoke them heartily, and his manner was sincere. For the outward act too--it was at some hazard--and the plague still raging--that he had returned to Florence. It was at some hazard that he stood, even at that moment, unaided, and almost unarmed, within walls where but a whisper of his name would have armed an hundred swords against his life. But Perline di Francavilla lived!--the Countess saw but that--would live and triumph--when she should be no more--despised--forgotten. The helplessness--the hopelessness--of all defence against such a consummation--the very sense of that helplessness seemed to exasperate her almost to frenzy.

Eagerly grasping her lover's hands, her action seemed to demand the repetition of his promise. But the words which should have expressed the demand were wanting. A sudden, but sinking change was taking place in the lady's appearance--the poison had run its course; and the crisis of her fate was approaching.

Slowly drawing her hand across her brow, as if to clear the mist that made her vision indistinct, she seemed anxiously to search out some object, which the fading sight had scarcely strength enough to reach.

At that moment, a dial, which faced the feet of the couch on which she lay, struck, with its shrill bell, the first hour of the morning.

The stroke seemed to fall upon the Countess, and paralyse her remaining faculties.

"Angiolina!" cried the Chevalier, springing from the floor--"Angiolina! speak, for mercy's sake! Angiolina!--she is dying!"

His attention was quickly called to his own safety: a footstep as he spoke approached distinctly through the corridor.

"Angiolina!" He started to the door by which he had entered. "Ruin and despair!" it was closed without--it would not open.

The footsteps came on still. Why, then, there was but one hope--his dagger was in his hand.

The Lady Angiolina heard--she saw what was passing. She moved--she pointed. No--it was wrong--not there! She made a last effort--she _spoke_, once more. "_Yonder_, Lorenzo--_There--there!_"

It was but the advantage of a moment. The curtains of the couch on which the Countess was lying parted the coming and the going guest. The light fall of the swinging door by which the new visitor entered the chamber, echoed the heavy drop of that which had shut the Chevalier from view.

* * * * *

It was not the Count di Arestino whose approach had created this alarm, but that which followed made the presence of his Lordship speedily desired. The female who entered the chamber found her mistress lying insensible, and in a state which left little doubt of her immediate dissolution. From that moment the Countess lived nearly two hours, but she never spoke again. Her confessor came. He pressed the cross to the lips of the expiring lady, and some said that she shrank from it; but the most believed that she was insensible, and the last absolution of the dying was administered. The Count Ubaldi stood by his wife's bedside. He wore no outward semblance of excessive grief. It might be that his heart bled inwardly; but he scarcely dreamed who had knelt on that same spot so short a time before him.

"It was at the bell of one," said Giuletta, in a low voice to her companion, "that my lady desired me to waken her. And when I came, as the clock struck, I found her even alone, and thus."

As she spoke, the shrill tongue of the dial once more struck the hour of two. A slight struggle agitated the features of the Countess at the sound! she clasped her hands as if in prayer, or from some suddenly excited recollection.

In another moment the source of all the anxiety expressed around was at an end. The domestics yet wept; the confessor still bent with the sacred image over his penitent; the Count Arestino still gazed coldly on--upon what? It was not upon his wife--for the Countess Arestino was no more.