CHAPTER XXIV

"WHITE HYACINTHS"

I am driven to what is either the vehicle for the sentimental vaporings of a school girl, or the last resource of a desperate, friendless woman. I am going to set down on blank paper the record of events here just in the way they occur to me. I am going to enjoy the luxury of being honest to myself. I need not say in which of the above states I am. That is soon shown.

I would to God that I had died before I had come here; before I had sought out my uncle, Count Marioni, and listened to the pitiful story of his wrongs. I am pledged to a purpose so awful that I dare not think of it. Day by day I am expecting the time to arrive for the accomplishment of my hideous vow. God keep it back! Keep me innocent a little longer!

I write this in a weak moment. There are times when my uncle's wistful eyes seem turned upon me, full of mute pleading, and the old spirit of my race stirs up a great passion of hate in my heart. Then the thing seems easy; I long for a weapon that I may end the struggle, and avenge the man who looks to me to strike. Her gentle manners and kind words have no influence. I am adamant. I look across the sea, and I see the figure of a man, pale and lonely, languishing year by year in a Roman prison. Then, indeed, my heart is hard and my hand is ready!

But there are other times, such as these, when I loathe myself and the