Giovanni, whose arm was badly shattered and who was suffering frightful pain, stood speechless with amazement at this sudden, unexpected intervention in his favor. Esperance instantly sprang to his side. The young Italian stared at him as if he had been an apparition from the other world. He failed to recognize him in his peasant's dress, with his stained visage.

"Who are you?" he gasped, as soon as he was able to find words.

"Do you not know me?" asked Esperance, astonished. In his excitement he had forgotten his disguise.

"You are a stranger to me," replied the Viscount, "but my gratitude is none the less on that account. You have rescued me from captivity, perhaps saved my life!"

"I am no stranger, Giovanni. I am your friend, Esperance."

"What! Esperance in that dress, with that sunburnt countenance! I thought your voice had a strangely familiar sound, but your disguise proved too complete for me to penetrate it!"

These words recalled to the mind of the son of Monte-Cristo the changes he had made in his appearance. No wonder that Viscount had failed to recognize him!

"Why did you disguise yourself, and how came you here at this critical juncture?" demanded Giovanni, after a pause.

"I disguised myself that I might follow you without fear of detection. You would not listen to reason, and I determined to protect you during your rash adventure so far as might lie in my power."

"From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Esperance. You are a brave as well as a devoted friend, fully worthy of your illustrious father! But how did you know me? I too, am disguised."

"The fact of my own disguise enabled me to penetrate yours. I recognized you almost immediately after you passed me on the Ponte St. Angelo."

"What! Were you the peasant I nearly ran down as I crossed the bridge?"

"I was. But let us lose no more time; we have lost enough already. Besides, more of Luigi Vampa's band are probably prowling in the vicinity, and I imagine we both have had sufficient of the banditti for one night! Prudence dictates that we should return at once to Rome. With your shattered arm, you surely do not count upon continuing your search for the fair Annunziata at present?"

"No; that is impossible, I regret to say. I will return with you to Rome."

As the Viscount spoke a sudden tremor seized upon him, and he leaned on his friend's shoulder for support.

"You are faint from loss of blood!" exclaimed Esperance, much alarmed. "How thoughtless in me not to bind up your wound!"

Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the blood from his friend's arm, carefully, tenderly bandaging the hurt; then he made a sling of Giovanni's handkerchief, placing the wounded member in it. The Viscount felt easier thus, though still somewhat faint.

"You are quite a physician, Esperance," said he.

"Not at all," replied the son of Monte-Cristo; "but my father taught me how to manage hurts; he said the knowledge would at some time be useful to me, and his words have proved true."

"Your father is a wonderful man; he seems to think of everything, to provide for all contingencies. Thanks to the skill he imparted to you, I am now in a condition to start on the homeward journey."

The young men turned their faces towards Rome, but scarcely had they taken a dozen steps when the road in front of them literally swarmed with rough-looking armed men, who effectually barred their progress. In an instant they were surrounded. Resistance was impossible; the two friends glanced at each other and about them in dismay. The new comers were evidently bandits, members of Luigi Vampa's desperate band.

One of the miscreants, who appeared to be the leader and was very picturesquely attired, confronted Giovanni and Esperance. He had a pistol in his belt, but did not draw it.

"You are my prisoners!" said he, in a tone of authority.

"Who are you, and by what right do you detain us?" demanded Esperance, haughtily.

"Who I am," replied the brigand, in a stern voice, "does not concern you. The right by which I detain you is the right of the strongest!"

"We cannot oppose your will, however unreasonable and unjust," returned Esperance; "my friend is wounded and my pistol is discharged. We can only throw ourselves upon your mercy; but we are gentlemen in spite of our dress, and demand to be treated as such!"

"How came your friend to be wounded and your pistol discharged?" asked the bandit, suspiciously.

"My friend was attacked and I went to his assistance," answered Esperance.

"You were in a fight, then," resumed the leader. Turning suddenly to his men, he asked: "Where is Ludovico?"

"He went up the road half an hour since, and has not yet returned," answered a short, thick-set young fellow, who seemed to be the leader's lieutenant.

"Just like him," said the leader. "Always rash, always seeking adventures alone. I heard a pistol-shot some time back," he continued, looking menacingly at Esperance. "Perhaps Ludovico has been assassinated! If so, it shall go hard with his murderers! Let him be searched for."

The short, thick-set lieutenant, accompanied by several of the band, immediately departed to obey the order.

Esperance glanced anxiously at Giovanni. A new danger threatened them. The gigantic brigand who had been slain was, without doubt, this Ludovico. His body would be found and summary vengeance taken upon them. Giovanni also realized the additional peril; but neither of the young men gave the slightest evidence of fear; inwardly they resolved to face death stoically, to meet it without the quiver of a muscle.

In a brief space the lieutenant and his companions returned; two of the men bore the corpse of the huge robber; they placed it on the grass by the roadside where the full moonlight streamed upon it, showing the wound in the breast and the garments saturated with blood. A frown contracted the leader's visage; he glanced at Esperance and the Viscount with a look of hate and rage; then, turning to the lieutenant, he said:

"Well?"

"We found Ludovico lying in the road a little distance from here," replied the short, thick-set man, with a trace of emotion in his rough voice. "He was shot in the heart and had been dead for some time."

The brigands had gathered about the prostrate form of their comrade; they seemed to be much affected by his fate; Ludovico was evidently a favorite.

As soon as the leader had received his subordinate's report, he turned to the prisoners, asking, sternly:

"Which of you murdered this man?"

"No murder was committed," returned Esperance, indignantly. "The huge ruffian shot my friend, shattering his arm, as you see; he was killed as a measure of defence."

"Your pistol is discharged," continued the leader, harshly; "that you have admitted; you killed Ludovico!"

"I defended my friend, whom he had basely attacked," said Esperance, sullenly.

"You killed this man? Yes or no!"

"I killed him!"

"Enough!" cried the leader, grinding his teeth. "You shall pay the penalty of your crime! Both of you shall die!"

He motioned to his lieutenant and in an instant Esperance and Giovanni were securely bound. The young men read desperate resolution and fierce vengeance upon all the rough countenances around them. There was not the faintest glimmer of hope; death would be dealt out to them at once and in the most summary fashion. Indeed, nooses were already dangling from a couple of trees by the roadside, waiting to do their fell work. The sight of these dread preparations roused Giovanni. With flashing eyes, he faced the leader of the band.

"Beware!" he cried. "If you murder us, you will have all Rome to deal with! We have told you we are gentlemen and not peasants. I am the Viscount Giovanni Massetti and my companion is the son of the famous Count of Monte-Cristo!"

As the young Italian uttered these words, a new comer suddenly appeared upon the scene for whom all the rest made way. He was an intellectual looking man, unostentatiously attired in a peasant's garb.

"Who spoke the name of the Count of Monte-Cristo?" demanded he.

The leader silently pointed to Massetti, who instantly replied:

"I spoke the name of the Count of Monte-Cristo, and he will surely take bitter vengeance upon you all for the murder of his son!"

"His son?"

"Yes, his son, who stands here at my side, ignobly bound and menaced with a shameful death!"

The stranger turned to Esperance and examined him closely.

"Are you the son of Monte-Cristo?" he asked, visibly agitated.

"I am," answered Esperance, coldly.

"Give me some token."

"'Wait and hope!'"

"His maxim!"

"Ah! you recognize it. Do you also recognize this?"

As he spoke the young man held up his left hand, and a magnificent diamond ring he wore flashed in the moonlight. The new comer took his hand and glanced at the jewel, one that the Count of Monte-Cristo had worn for years and which he had but a few days before presented to his son.

"I am convinced," said the stranger. Then, turning to the leader, he said, in a tone of command: "Release these men!"

"But they have slain Ludovico!"

"Release them!" thundered the stranger. "Ludovico should have known better then to have interfered with my friends!"

He was instantly obeyed, and the two young men, greatly astonished, stood relieved of their bonds.

"You are at liberty," continued the stranger, "and can resume your route. Say to the Count of Monte-Cristo that Luigi Vampa remembers his compact and is faithful to it!"

As he spoke the notorious bandit chief gathered his men together, and the whole band vanished among the trees like so many spirits of the night.



CHAPTER VII.

IN THE PEASANT'S HUT.

For a moment the two young men stood silent and astounded. So sudden had been the change from imminent peril to safety that they could hardly comprehend it. Luigi Vampa had come and gone like a flash, and both bandits and danger had been dispelled by the wonderful magic of Monte-Cristo's name. The brigand chief had styled Giovanni and Esperance his friends, and as such they knew the entire country in the vicinity of Rome was free to them; they could travel it by day or by night without fear of molestation. Esperance cared little for this, but Giovanni was elated by it, for it would enable him to seek out Annunziata Solara without risk of interruption or impediment. But what was the Count of Monte-Cristo's mysterious power? That was a question difficult, indeed, to answer. At any rate, even the fierce Luigi Vampa bowed to it, and it was as undisputed as it was strange.

The Viscount Massetti was the first to realize the necessity of a rapid push for Rome. He was faint from loss of blood and excitement; besides, his shattered arm throbbed violently and gave him twinges of excruciating pain. He felt himself sinking and urged his friend to hasten. Esperance acquiesced, and, supporting the young Italian as best he could, they resumed the homeward journey. Scarcely a mile had been traversed, however, when Giovanni threw himself upon the sward at the foot of a great tree, declaring that it was altogether impossible for him to advance another step. The throbbing in his arm had become unbearable, taking his breath away and filling him with a sickening sensation.

They were yet far from Rome, and not a sign of a habitation could be discerned in any direction. Waiting for daylight to come was not to be thought of; it would be some hours before dawn, and even when the sun had arisen it was by no means certain that assistance would be procurable. Meanwhile Giovanni would suffer torments, to say nothing of the danger of being exposed in his condition to the influence of the malaria from the surrounding marshes.

Esperance, though unwilling to leave his friend's side for an instant, decided at last that it was imperative for him to go in search of succor. Meanwhile a raging fever had set in and Giovanni was rapidly growing worse. As the son of Monte-Cristo was about to start on his tour of investigation, he heard a man's voice singing at some distance away, but gradually coming nearer. The sound was cheery and reassuring, for certainly the man who could sing so sweetly and joyously must have a good, kind heart. As the man approached Esperance recognized his song—it was that beautiful and expressive serenade, "Cara Nina," a melody dear to all youthful Italian lovers whether humble or of high degree.

The man at length came in sight; he was walking leisurely, but with a long, swinging gait. His voice was a clear, full tenor robusto, and the notes of his delicious love song trilled from his throat with wonderful effect in the still, balmy air of the tranquil, glorious night. He was not over twenty, was a stalwart peasant, and the moonlight showed that he possessed a manly, open countenance. So engrossed was he by his serenade that he failed to notice Giovanni lying at the foot of the huge tree and Esperance standing beside him. He was passing on when the latter hailed him. He paused, somewhat alarmed, and his hand instinctively grasped a weapon concealed in his bosom. Esperance hastened to reassure him.

"Have no fear," he said. "We are merely travelers, and one of us is grievously wounded. In Heaven's name, render what assistance you can!"

The young peasant turned and came cautiously towards them.

"This is a dangerous neighborhood," said he; "it is infested by bandits of the most reckless and daring description."

"We have abundant reason to know it," answered Esperance, "for we have just had a very narrow escape from a horrible death at the hands of some of Luigi Vampa's men."

"Luigi Vampa's men!" echoed the peasant, in astonishment.

"Yes."

"And they released you of their own accord? I never heard of such a thing! It is not their custom to free their prey, at least without a heavy ransom. Did they rob you, or did you pay them for your liberty?"

"Neither," replied Esperance.

The peasant's amazement was redoubled. He glanced inquiringly at the prostrate Viscount.

"How came your comrade to be wounded?" he asked.

"His arm was shattered by the pistol of a gigantic bandit."

"Ludovico?" demanded the peasant, glancing around him, as if he expected to see the huge assailant.

"I believe that was his name," returned Esperance. "But he will do no more injury!"

"You do not mean to say that you killed him?"

"I do."

"And yet you were allowed to go free! I cannot understand it!"

"Perhaps not, but you can understand that my friend is badly hurt and needs immediate aid and shelter. Is there not some hospitable cabin in the vicinity to which he can be conveyed, where he can be attended to until assistance arrives from Rome?"

The peasant hesitated for an instant; then he said:

"My father lives at a short distance from here; he could shelter you if he would, but he is in such terror of the bandits that, under the circumstances, he would probably close his door against you."

"He need have no fear of the brigands in this case, for Luigi Vampa has just given us a signal proof of his protection. Besides, he assured us that he was our friend."

"This is singular, indeed," said the peasant, again hesitating. "Luigi Vampa is a friend to but very few, and they are those with whom he is in league. You certainly are not in league with him, or you would not have killed Ludovico!"

"This is no time for parley," replied Esperance. "My friend is suffering, and humanity alone should cause your father to receive him. I will engage to appease Luigi Vampa's anger, should it be aroused; at the worst, I pledge myself to surrender with my friend at the first summons to do so, and to assure the brigand chief that your father is altogether blameless. Come, can I not prevail upon you to be generous and humane?"

"Well," said the peasant, partially satisfied, "I will trust you, though I am taking a great risk. Should Vampa be offended, he will burn our hut over our heads and murder us all without pity. However, both your wounded friend and yourself shall have such poor shelter as our humble roof affords."

Giovanni was aided to arise, and, taking him between them, Esperance and the peasant began their walk. Fortunately they did not have far to go, otherwise the young Viscount's failing strength would have been unequal to the task. They quitted the highway, plunging into a narrow footpath closely wooded on either side; so thickly, in fact, did the tree branches interlace overhead that the moonbeams were effectually excluded and almost impenetrable darkness reigned. For an instant Esperance was apprehensive of treachery, but this fear was dispelled when he thought of the manly bearing of the youthful peasant and the dread of the brigands he had expressed. The three could scarcely walk abreast in the narrow pathway, and every now and then Giovanni stumbled against some protruding root or other obstacle invisible in the obscurity; but the peasant knew the road perfectly, and with no uncertain step hurried his companions on as rapidly as possible.

Soon the path widened somewhat, the light commenced to sift through the dense foliage, and the gurgling of a noisy brook was heard at no great distance. Suddenly they made an abrupt turn, coming in sight of a small, neat-looking cabin, covered with clustering vines and embowered in verdure. The brook dashed along within a few yards of it, the fresh odor of the water mingling gratefully with the perfume of honeysuckles and the aromatic scent of the surrounding forest. It was, indeed, a beautiful and highly romantic spot, a cosy, sequestered nook, such as that in which King Henry hid away his love, the Fair Rosamond, from the prying glances of the inquisitive world. Esperance gazed at it with rapture, and even Giovanni, wounded and exhausted as he was, could not refrain from uttering an exclamation of astonishment and admiration. The cabin was closed and not a sign of life was visible.

"We have arrived," said the peasant, in a low voice. Quitting his companions, he went to a window, against which he gave three distinct raps.

The signal was almost immediately answered by three similar raps from within; then the window was thrown open and a woman's head appeared. The moonlight fell full upon her face, and both Esperance and Giovanni suddenly started as they recognized Annunziata Solara, the bewitching flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo.

"It is she—it is Annunziata!" whispered the young Viscount in his comrade's ear.

"Hush!" returned the latter, in a guarded undertone. "Do not betray yourself! She will never recognize us, disguised as we are! Besides, our guide's suspicions must not be aroused! He might yet refuse us shelter!"

"You are right, as you always are," answered Massetti. "We must maintain our incognito, at least until we are sure of our ground."

Meanwhile the peasant was speaking hastily with Annunziata.

"Sister," he said, "I am not alone; two travelers, peasants like ourselves, are with me. They were attacked by Luigi Vampa's men, and one of them is sorely wounded."

"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the girl, evidently filled with terror.

"They claim our hospitality for the night and our assistance until aid can be procured from Rome. In my father's name I have accorded them shelter. Open the door and admit us."

The girl disappeared from the window and in another instant had flung the door open. As she stood there in the silverly light, the state of her garments and hair indicating that she had hurriedly risen from her couch, her bright, picturesque beauty was vastly heightened. The young men thought they had never beheld a more entrancing vision of female loveliness.

"Where is father?" asked the peasant, anxiously.

"He has not yet returned," replied the girl.

The guide uttered a sigh of relief.

"I am glad," said he, "for Pasquale Solara does not like strangers. Were he here he might refuse to exercise hospitality towards this wounded man and his companion, even though they are, as they assert, friends of Luigi Vampa."

"Friends of Luigi Vampa!" echoed the girl, becoming greatly alarmed. "The Blessed Virgin protect us!"

"They are not brigands, at any rate," said the peasant, "and I believe them honest men. If, however, they are deceiving me, I shall know how to act!"

There was an ominous flash in his eye as he spoke, and his hand again sought the weapon concealed within his bosom. Esperance, who had been intently listening to this conversation and had marked every motion of the young peasant, felt his suspicions revive; but there was no time for hesitation; shelter and aid for his friend were of the first necessity; they must be obtained at once and at any cost. He had refrained from offering the peasant money, not wishing to betray that he and his companion were other personages than they seemed, and now that Annunziata had appeared upon the scene he congratulated himself on the wisdom of his course. He, nevertheless, feared Giovanni's impulsiveness in the presence of the girl he so much admired, and determined to watch him as closely as possible, in order to promptly check all damaging disclosures. If Giovanni remained in this attractive nook long enough to open and carry on a flirtation with the beautiful flower-girl, he must do so solely as a peasant and under the cover of his clever disguise. It was hardly likely that Annunziata would recognize in Massetti and himself the two youthful gallants she had encountered but for a moment amid the gay throng and crush of the brilliant Piazza del Popolo.

While these thoughts went flashing through his mind, the young Viscount, leaning heavily upon his arm, had not taken his eyes from the handsome, tempting girl before him. Suffering as he was, he longed to be at her side, to clasp her lovely shape, to feel her warm, voluptuous breath stream over his face and imprint kiss after kiss on her ripe red lips. He had not forgotten Zuleika. Oh! no! But Annunziata Solara was an altogether different being, a girl to delight him, intoxicate him, for a moment as the other for life. For Monte-Cristo's daughter his feeling was love, for the fascinating flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo it was a passion to be sated.

After a few more words to his sister, the peasant returned to the young men, aiding Esperance to transport Giovanni into the cabin. The interior of this humble abode was as neat and picturesque as the exterior. The room they entered was small and cheaply furnished, but feminine taste was everywhere displayed. A single candle was the only light, but the scanty illumination sufficed to show the refining touches of a woman's hand. In one corner stood a bed, the covers of which were turned down, and upon which was impressed the shape of its late occupant. At the head of the bed a brass crucifix was suspended from the wall, while over the back of a chair hung articles of a woman's apparel. Giovanni could not doubt that he was in Annunziata's chamber, and that the imprint on the bed was hers. He felt a thrill of joy at the idea that he was to occupy the bewitching flower-girl's couch, to occupy, perhaps, the very place where she had lain but a short time before.

Annunziata, who had thrown a cloak over her shoulders and night clothes, but whose feet were still bare, had accompanied her brother and his companions to the apartment. She eyed the strangers timidly, but curiously, though it was quite plain she failed to penetrate their disguise. With deft hands she rearranged the bed and removed her garments from the chair. Then she retired to another room, and the wounded Viscount was aided to undress and assisted into the couch by the peasant and Esperance, where he eventually fell asleep in a delirium of bliss, after his hurt had been properly cared for.

Esperance was duly bestowed for the night, and soon unbroken silence brooded over the solitary cabin in the forest.

Thus was enacted the initial scene of a drama that was destined to be fruitful in disastrous results, results that clouded more than one happy life.



CHAPTER VIII.

A SYLVAN IDYL.

In the morning the Viscount Massetti's arm was found to be so much swollen and his wound so painful that it was deemed advisable to send for a physician, who resided in a neighboring hamlet not more than a mile distant from the cabin of the Solaras. The man of medicine was soon at Giovanni's bedside. After examining and dressing his hurt, he declared that the patient ought not to be moved for at least a week, a piece of intelligence at which the young man inwardly rejoiced, notwithstanding all the torture he suffered, for his sojourn involved nursing at the hands of the beautiful Annunziata, who had already shown him that she possessed tenderness and a kind heart, as well as good looks.

Esperance held a conference with his friend after the physician's departure to decide upon what should be done. He proposed to go at once to Rome and acquaint the Viscount's family with what had happened and Giovanni's condition, but the young man firmly opposed this plan, declaring that he would be well in a few days at most and protesting that informing his relatives of his situation would involve explanations he had no desire to give. Giovanni also begged Esperance to remain with him and give no sign as to their place of retreat; so earnestly did he solicit these favors that the son of Monte-Cristo, much against his will and with many forebodings, finally consented to grant them.

Pasquale Solara returned home late on the day following the arrival of the strangers at his hut. He was an old, but sturdy shepherd, whose rough, sunburned visage spoke of exposure to the weather and hard toil. He frequently was absent for days and nights in succession, absences that he never explained and about which his son and daughter did not dare to question him, for Pasquale was a harsh man, who grew angry at the slightest pretext and was inclined to be severe with all who sought to pry into his affairs. He expressed great fear of the bandits who infested the vicinity of Rome and especially of Luigi Vampa's band, but those who knew him best shook their heads doubtingly, and, though they did not say so, it was plainly to be seen that they deemed this fear merely assumed for purposes of his own. At any rate, it was a significant fact that Pasquale was never disturbed in his wanderings, while the brigands always left his dwelling and its inmates unmolested.

The old shepherd frowned darkly when informed by his children that they had given shelter to a couple of travelers, one of whom had been wounded in a fight with a brigand, but he said nothing and appeared disposed to accept the situation without even a grumble. He did not, however, enter the chamber in which Giovanni lay and avoided coming in contact with Esperance, who caught but a passing glimpse of him ere he departed again on another expedition, which he did after a stay of only half an hour at his cabin.

The young peasant and Esperance soon became quite friendly, indulging in many a ramble in the forest and beside the gurgling brook. The peasant's name was Lorenzo, and he appeared to lead a free life, totally unencumbered with avocation of any kind, save occasionally looking after a few sheep that never strayed far from the banks of the little stream.

Annunziata for the time abandoned her visits to Rome, installing herself as Giovanni's nurse. She was almost constantly beside him, and her presence and care were more potent medicines than any the physician administered. Her smile seemed to exercise a bewitching effect upon the young Viscount, while her voice sounded in his ravished ear like the sweetest music. The handsome girl was the very picture of perfect health, and her well-developed form had all the charm of early maturity, added to youthful freshness and grace. She wore short skirts, and her shapely limbs were never encumbered with stockings, while her feet were invariably bare. A low, loose body with short sleeves displayed her robust neck and shoulders, and plump, dimpled arms that would have been the envy of a duchess. Her hands as well as her feet were not small and the sun had given them a liberal coat of brown, but they were neatly turned and attractive, while her short, taper fingers were tipped with pink, carefully trimmed nails. Altogether she looked like the spirit of the place, a delicious wood nymph as enchanting as any a poet's fancy ever created and yet a substantial, mortal reality well calculated to fire a man's blood and set his brain in a whirl. If she had appeared beautiful in Rome, amid the aristocratic fashion queens of the Piazza del Popolo, she seemed a thousand-fold more delightful and fascinating in her humble forest home, where she shook off all restraint and showed herself as she really was, a bright, innocent child of nature, as pure as the breath of heaven and as free from guile as the honey-fed butterfly of the summer sunshine.

The more Giovanni saw of her the more he came under the dominion of her irresistible charms, the empire of her physical attractiveness. Gradually he mended, and as his wound healed his strength returned. At length, towards the close of the week, he was able to quit his bed and sit in a large chair by the window of his room. It had been agreed upon between him and Esperance that, during their sojourn at the Solara cabin, they should be known respectively as Antonio Valpi and Guiseppe Sagasta, and already Annunziata had bestowed upon her patient the friendly and familiar diminutive of Tonio, a name to which he answered with wildly beating heart and eyes that spoke volumes.

By means of shrewdly managed questions the young Viscount had ascertained that the flower-girl had no lover, that her breast had never owned the tender passion, and this intelligence added fuel to the flame that was consuming him. It is not to be supposed that Annunziata was ignorant of the strong impression she had made upon her youthful and handsome patient. She was perfectly aware of it and secretly rejoiced at the manifest exhibition of the power of her charms. Perhaps she did not as yet love Giovanni, perhaps it was merely the general physical attraction of a woman towards a man, or it might have been that innate spice of coquetry common to every female, but the fact remained that she tacitly encouraged the young Viscount in his ardent attentions to her. She, moreover, lured and inflamed him in such a careless, innocent way that she acquired additional piquancy thereby. Had Annunziata been a designing woman of the world intent upon trapping a wealthy lover, instead of a pure and artless country maid totally unconscious of the harm she was working, she could not have played her game with more effect. Giovanni had become altogether her slave. He hung upon her smiles, drank her words and could hardly restrain himself in her presence. No shipwrecked mariner ever more greedily devoured with his dazzled eyes the fateful loreley of a rocky, deserted coast than he did her. Had she been his social equal, had her intelligence and education matched her personal beauty, he would have forgotten Zuleika, thrown himself impetuously at her feet and solicited her hand. As it was, while Monte-Cristo's daughter possessed his entire heart, Annunziata Solara enslaved his senses.

She received his approaches as a matter-of-course, without diffidence, without a blush. His gallant speeches pleased her, she did not know why. So thoroughly unsuspicious was she, that she failed to notice his language was not that of the untutored peasant he claimed to be, that his bearing as well as his words indicated a degree of culture and refinement far above his assumed station. She was dazzled, charmed by him as the bird is by the glittering serpent with its wicked, fascinating eyes. She thought of nothing but the present and its novel joys. She had never heeded the future—she did not heed it now.

One morning as she sat at his side by the open window, through which stole the balmy air of the forest laden with the intoxicating perfume of a thousand wild, intensely sweet flowers, Giovanni suddenly took her brown hand, covering it with passionate kisses. The girl did not resist, did not withdraw her hand from his; she did not even tremble, though a slight glow came into her cheeks, making her look like a very Circe.

"Annunziata," said Giovanni, in a low voice scarcely above a whisper, "do you care for me?"

"Care for you, Tonio?" replied the girl, gazing sweetly into his glowing and agitated countenance. "Oh! yes! I care a great deal for you!"

He threw his arm about her neck, and, as his hand lay upon her shapely shoulder, a magnetic thrill shot through him like a sudden shock from a powerful electric battery. Annunziata did not seek to withdraw herself from his warm embrace, and he drew her to him with tightening clasp until her full, palpitating bosom rested against his breast. Her tempting red lips, slightly parted, were upturned; he placed his upon them in a long, lingering, delirious kiss. Then the color deepened in her cheeks, and she gently disengaged herself. She did not, however, avert her eyes, but gazed into his with a look of mute inquiry. All this was new to her, and the more delicious because of its entire novelty.

"Neither my father, nor my brother, nor my dead mother ever kissed me like that!" she said, artlessly.

Giovanni was enraptured; the girl's innocence was absolutely marvelous; he had never dreamed that such innocence existed upon earth. Was she really what she appeared?

"Annunziata," he said, abruptly, his heart beating furiously and his breath coming thick and fast, "you have never experienced love, or you would know the meaning of that kiss!"

"Love?" answered the girl, opening her large, lustrous eyes widely. "Oh! yes, I have felt love. I love my father and Lorenzo, I love—everybody!"

"But not as you would love a young man, who would throw himself at your pretty feet and pour out the treasures of his heart to you!"

"No young man has ever done that," said Annunziata, smiling and nestling closer to him.

"But some one will before long, perhaps before many minutes! How would you like me to be that one!" cried the Viscount, in his headlong fashion.

"I cannot tell," answered the girl, "I do not know!"

"Then let me try the experiment!" said Giovanni, rising from his chair and sinking on his knees in front of her. "Annunziata, I love you!"

The girl stroked his hair and then passed her taper fingers through his flowing locks. She was silent and seemed to be thinking. Her bosom heaved just a little more than usual, and the glow on her cheeks became a trifle more intense. Giovanni, yet kneeling, seized her hand, holding it in a crushing clasp.

"Do you hear me?" he cried, impatiently. "Do you understand me? I love you!"

"You love me, Tonio?" replied the girl, slowly. "Well, it is only natural! Every young man must love some young girl some time or other, and I think—I think—I love you a little!"

"Think!" said Giovanni, amazed. "Do you not know it?"

"Perhaps!" answered Annunziata, still fondling his hair.

Giovanni threw his arms about her waist, an ample, healthful waist, free from the restraints of corsets and the cramping devices of fashion. As he did so the sound of footsteps was heard without, and he had scarcely time to leap to his feet when Esperance entered the room.

Massetti was confused and his friend noticed the fact. He also remarked that Annunziata was slightly flushed and seemed to have experienced some agreeable agitation. Esperance instantly leaped to a conclusion. Giovanni's flirtation with the fair flower-girl had gone a trifle too far, had assumed a serious aspect. He would interfere, he would remonstrate with him. It might not yet be too late after all. Annunziata was a pure and innocent creature, unused to the ways of the world and incapable of suspecting the wickedness of men. She was on the point of falling into a deadly snare, on the point of being wrecked upon the most dangerous shoal life presented. Her very purity and innocence would make her an easy victim. Giovanni was not wicked; he was merely young, the prey of the irresistible passion of youth. Annunziata's surpassing loveliness had fired his blood, had driven him to the verge of a reckless action, a crime against this beautiful girl that money could not repair. This crime should not be committed, if he could help it, and he would risk the Viscount's friendship to save him from himself. Giovanni could not marry the humble peasant girl; he should not mar her future.

When Esperance came into the chamber, his presence recalled Annunziata to herself and also dampened Massetti's ardor. The girl arose and, smiling at Esperance, tripped blushingly away. Giovanni was flushed and somewhat angry at the intrusion at the critical moment of his love making. Esperance's face was grave; he felt all the weight of the responsibility he was about to assume.

"Giovanni," said he, in a measured tone, "I do not blame you for being fascinated by a pretty, amiable girl like Annunziata Solara, far from it. She is certainly a paragon of beauty, a model of rustic grace, a very tempting morsel of rural virtue and innocence. She is well fitted to turn the head of almost any young man—I freely acknowledge that. It is pardonable to wish to enjoy her society—nay, a harmless flirtation with her is, perhaps, not censurable; but that is the utmost length to which a man of honor can go! Remember she has a reputation to lose, a heart to break!"

"What do you mean by that long sermon?" demanded the Viscount, setting his teeth and frowning savagely.

"I mean that you have been making love to this poor girl, that you have been seeking to requite her care of you in a manner but little to your credit!"

"I owe you my life, Esperance," replied Massetti, "but even my gratitude will not shield you from my fury, if you step between me and Annunziata Solara!"

"You mean to pursue her then, to soil her name, to blast her future, for surely you are not courting her with marriage as your object?"

Giovanni flushed scarlet at this open accusation.

"I mean to pursue her—yes! What my object in the matter is concerns only myself; you have nothing whatever to do with it!" he exclaimed, hotly.

"But I have a great deal to do with it!" replied Esperance, firmly. "You shall not pursue Annunziata Solara to her destruction! Between her good name and your reckless intentions I will oppose a barrier you cannot surmount—myself!"

"Do you mean to champion her to the extent of challenging me?" demanded Massetti, fairly foaming with ire.

"If you persist in your nefarious designs, yes!" answered the son of Monte-Cristo, with equal warmth. "You are my friend, my friend of friends, Giovanni Massetti, but the instant you menace that innocent girl's honor my friendship for you crumbles to dust and you become my deadly foe! Take your choice. Either leave this hospitable cabin with me as soon as the state of your wound will permit you to do so, meanwhile respecting Annunziata Solara as you would your own sister, or meet me pistol in hand on the field of honor! Take your choice, I say! What is your decision?"

"I will not give up Annunziata!"

"Then you must fight!"

"I shall not hesitate!"

"So be it! My life against yours! I will defend this poor girl's honor to the last drop of my blood!"

"When shall we fight?"

"To-morrow at dawn."

"Where?"

"In the clearing beyond the chestnut copse on the further side of the brook. There is no need of witnesses; this matter is between us and us alone!"

"So much the better, for it will be a duel to the death! I cannot as yet hold my right arm aloft long enough to fight with it, but I will make my left hand serve!" Then, as a sudden thought struck him, Massetti added: "Do you propose to betray me, to carry your story to Annunziata and her brother?"

Esperance surveyed his companion with intense scorn flashing from his eyes.

"I am no traitor!" he said, coldly, and, turning, quitted the apartment.



CHAPTER IX.

THE ABDUCTION.

The remainder of that day Esperance and Giovanni did not meet again; they purposely avoided each other, the former because he did not wish to have a further quarrel with the Viscount, and the latter because he dreaded a repetition of the accusations of dishonorable conduct, which had stung him deeper than he would own even to himself.

Esperance disdained to play the spy upon Massetti, but, nevertheless, he determined not to quit the immediate vicinity of the cabin and to be as watchful as circumstances would permit. Nothing, however, occurred to arouse his suspicions as long as daylight lasted. Once or twice Giovanni quitted his chamber and walked back and forth excitedly on the sward in front of the hut, but his promenades were of very short duration, seeming to have no other object then to calm his seething brain. Annunziata did not go near him, though whether coquetry or fear caused her to pursue this course Esperance was unable to determine, but her action gratified him because it gave Giovanni no opportunity to follow up whatever advantage he might have gained with the flower-girl.

Lorenzo appeared to have no suspicion whatever that anything was amiss either with the young men or his sister. He was as light-hearted and cheerful as ever, going about his usual trifling occupations with gayety that was absolutely contagious, and displaying even more than his accustomed amiability. Esperance had grown to esteem this youthful peasant highly; he had found him manliness and generosity personified and had resolved, on his return to Rome, to interest the Count of Monte-Cristo in his welfare and advancement. With regard to Annunziata, Esperance was as yet altogether undecided; she was a problem he could not solve. Her innocence and virtue were apparent, but her childlike simplicity and utter lack of worldly experience, while so charming and delightful to behold, added to her wonderful beauty, exposed her to risks that were frightful to contemplate. Had she only possessed a lover in her own rank of life, all would have been well with her; but she possessed no lover, was absolutely alone; if she escaped Giovanni, and Esperance was determined she should escape him if he could effect it, the chances were that she would eventually fall into the clutches of some other admirer still more reckless and unscrupulous. The son of Monte-Cristo could not think of the lovely girl and her future without a pang that made his very heart ache. He, too, admired her beauty, her grace and her artlessness, but his admiration was confined within the proper bounds, and could he have seen her suitably and happily wedded, he would have rejoiced to the depths of his soul.

Late in the afternoon Pasquale Solara reappeared suddenly and without the least warning. The old man was covered with dust, as if he had been journeying far on foot. He plainly showed that he was greatly fatigued, also that something had occurred to irritate him. He entered the cabin unobserved, and was there for some moments before his presence was discovered. Annunziata was the first to see him, sitting upon a rude wooden bench with his stout oaken staff in his hand on which he leaned heavily. She threw her arms about his neck with a cry of joy, endeavoring to snatch a kiss from his tightly-closed lips, but he sternly and silently repulsed her. Lorenzo, in his turn, met with no warmer reception at his father's hands. But his children were used to Pasquale's moods and were, therefore, altogether unaffected by his present morose deportment; they speedily left him to himself, giving themselves no further trouble concerning him. Once when Esperance came into the room the old man stared at him inquiringly, as if he had utterly forgotten the fact that strangers were enjoying the shelter of his roof; then he appeared to recollect and scowled so savagely that the young man beat a hasty retreat, going to seek Lorenzo, whose cheery voice was heard singing beyond the brook.

As Esperance came in sight of the little stream, he nearly stumbled over a peasant, lying at full length beneath the spreading branches of an aged willow. The stranger was reading a book, and Esperance was amazed to notice that it was "Caesar's Commentaries." He uttered an apology for his awkwardness, but the peasant only smiled and, in a gentle voice, begged pardon for being in the way. That voice! Esperance was certain he had heard it before, but where or when he could not recall, though it thrilled him to the very marrow of his bones, filling him with vague apprehensions. The man's face, too, was familiar, as also was his attire; but there was great similarity between the Italian peasants in the vicinity of Rome in general looks and dress; it was quite likely that he had not seen this man before, but some other resembling him; still, the voice and face troubled Esperance, and he decided to question the peasant; the rarity of strangers' visits to this sequestered locality would be a sufficient pretext for his curiosity.

"My friend," said he, addressing the recumbent reader, who had resumed his book, "are you a relative or acquaintance of the Solaras?"

"I am neither," replied the man, carelessly, glancing up from his volume and allowing his penetrating eyes to rest on his questioner, "I strolled here by chance, and this cosy nook was so inviting that I took possession of it without a thought as to the intrusion I was committing."

The peasant's language was refined; Esperance noted this fact and was not a little surprised thereby; in addition, he could not understand why the stranger should be reading "Caesar's Commentaries," a work far beyond the range of the usual peasant intellect.

"You are committing no intrusion," said he. "Lorenzo and Annunziata, I am sure, would be glad to welcome you. Old Pasquale is somewhat of a savage, it is true, but luckily he does not bother himself much about anything or anybody."

"Pasquale has arrived then?" said the man, dropping his book and evincing a sudden interest.

"Yes; he is in the cabin now," answered Esperance, his astonishment increasing. "Do you want to speak with him?"

"No," said the peasant, lightly springing to his feet. He hastily closed his book, thrust it into his belt, and, bowing to Esperance, disappeared in the forest.

The young man looked after him for an instant; then he joined Lorenzo and informed him of the meeting. At his first words Annunziata's brother ceased singing; a cloud overspread his brow, and he asked, in an eager tone, for a description of the curiously behaved stranger. Esperance gave it to him, remarking as he did so that his companion turned slightly pale and seemed frightened.

"Who is this man?" he asked, as he concluded. "Do you know him? He appeared strangely familiar to me."

"Do I know him?" repeated Lorenzo, with a shudder. "Yes—that is no!"

Esperance stared at his comrade in surprise and uneasiness; the youthful peasant evidently had more knowledge of the singular intruder than he was willing to admit. There was surely some mystery here. What was it? Did the presence of this stranger menace the peace, the tranquillity, the safety of the Solara family? Was he in some dark way associated with the movements and actions of old Pasquale? Esperance attempted to question Lorenzo further, but he only shook his head and declined to make any disclosures. He, however, stipulated that his sister should not be informed of what had occurred, urging that there was no necessity of uselessly alarming her. Alarming her? What could he mean? Esperance grew more and more perplexed, and his conviction that he had met the stranger previously, increasing in strength, added to his anxiety and discomfort.

For some hours Giovanni had kept his room and given no sign. What was he meditating? Was it possible that he was concocting some cunning plan by which to circumvent intervention and gain undisturbed possession of the girl who had so powerfully influenced his passions? Could it be that he was in some mysterious way associated with the strange peasant, whose sudden advent seemed of such ill omen? Esperance thought of all these things and was infinitely tortured by them, but, one by one, he succeeded in dismissing them from his mind. Giovanni was certainly under a potent spell that might lead him to the commission of any indiscretion, but he was at bottom a man of honor, and there was some chance that his better feelings might obtain the mastery of his mere physical inclinations. At any rate, Esperance felt that he could trust him for one night more at least. Perhaps in the morning he would awaken to a true sense of his position and acknowledge his error; he might even implore his friend's pardon, admit that he was right and consent to return to Rome, leaving the bewitching Annunziata in all her innocence and purity. Upon reflection Esperance decided that the stranger could be in nowise the associate or accomplice of the Viscount, for the latter had communicated with no one, had not even gone a dozen steps from the Solara cabin during his entire period of convalescence. The idea of collusion was untenable. Esperance resolved to watch and wait. There was no telling what a few hours might bring forth; but at the worst he would fight; if he fell he would not regret it, and, if Giovanni perished at his hands, his death would be due to his own headlong impulses and his blood, under the circumstances, could not be a disgraceful, dishonorable stain.

Towards nightfall old Pasquale Solara began to display unwonted activity, showing, at the same time, signs of considerable agitation. He was yet uncommunicative and morose, spoke only at rare intervals; often he did not reply at all to the questions addressed to him, and when he did answer it was only in gruff, snappish monosyllables. He went from place to place uneasily, frequently leaving the cabin and gazing peeringly and stealthily into the forest as if he expected some one or was looking for some secret signal known only to himself. He glanced at Lorenzo and Esperance suspiciously, seeking, as it were, to penetrate their very thoughts. When he encountered Annunziata, he examined her from head to foot with a strange mixture of satisfaction, anxiety and tremulousness. At such times there was a greedy, wolfish expression in his glittering eyes, and his hands worked nervously.

When twilight had given place to darkness, he suddenly left the hut and did not return. His unusual conduct had occasioned somewhat of a commotion in the little household, but quiet reigned after his departure and his singular behavior was speedily forgotten by his children. Not so, however, with Esperance. The young man, agitated as he was with the turmoil of his own feelings, could not get old Pasquale and his behavior out of his mind. It filled him with sinister forebodings and made him look forward to the night with an indefinable dread, not unmingled with absolute fear. It seemed to him that the old shepherd was meditating some dark and desperate deed that would be put into execution with disastrous results ere dawn.

The evening, nevertheless, passed without incident, and in due course sleep brooded over the Solara cabin, wrapping all its inmates in silence and repose. All its inmates? All save the son of Monte-Cristo, who tossed restlessly upon his couch and could not close his eyes. At length, however, he managed to calm himself somewhat and was just sinking into a sort of half slumber when he was suddenly roused by a wild, far echoing cry that caused him to leap instantly from his bed. The cry was a woman's, and he thought he recognized the voice, of Annunziata Solara. A second's thought seemed to satisfy him on this point, for the flower-girl was the only female in the vicinity and the voice was certainly hers; but it sounded from a distance, without the cabin, and this fact bewildered him. Promptly old Solara's conduct returned to his mind, and instinctively he connected the morose shepherd with the cry and whatever was happening. The young man had not removed his garments; it was, therefore, only the work of an instant for him to grasp his pistol, which he kept loaded beneath his pillow, and rush from the hut in the direction of the cry, which had been repeated, but was growing fainter and fainter.

As he emerged from the cabin, he heard a shot echo through the forest, and almost immediately a man rushed into his arms, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in the temple. The night was moonless and dark, but in the feeble and uncertain light Esperance recognized Lorenzo.

"My sister—my sister—poor Annunziata!" the young peasant gasped, painfully. "Your friend—abducted—gone! Oh! my God!" and he sank to the ground an unconscious mass, quivering in the final agonies of dissolution.

Esperance was horror-stricken. Annunziata abducted by Giovanni! He could draw no other conclusion from the young peasant's broken exclamations! Lorenzo slain, too, and doubtlessly also by the impetuous Viscount's hand! Oh! it was horrible!—it was almost beyond belief! He bent over Lorenzo's prostrate form, straightened it out and felt in the region of the heart; there was no beat; it was as he had divined—Annunziata's manly and generous brother was dead—the victim of a cowardly, treacherous assassin—and that assassin!—oh! he could not think of it and retain his faith in men!

Esperance left Lorenzo's corpse lying upon the sward, and, pistol in hand, started forward to go to Annunziata's aid, to rescue her from her dastardly abductor, if it lay within his power to do so. He reached the forest and plunged into its sombre depths. Scarcely had he gone twenty feet when a man carrying a flaming torch rushed wildly by him, in his shirt sleeves, hatless, his short, thick gray hair standing almost erect upon his head. In the sudden flash of light his haggard eyes blazed like those of a maniac. In his left hand he held a long, keen-bladed knife. He glanced neither to the right nor the left, but kept straight on, as if he were a ferocious bloodhound in pursuit of human prey. Esperance came to an abrupt pause, and stared with wide-open eyes at the startling apparition. It was old Pasquale Solara! The son of Monte-Cristo shuddered as he thought that the father, with all his Italian ferocity thoroughly aroused, was in pursuit of the man who had abducted his daughter and murdered his son. In that event the Viscount's death was sure, for he could not escape the vengeance of the distracted and remorseless shepherd! Should he raise his voice and warn him? No, a thousand times no! Giovanni deserved death, and did the furious old man inflict it, he would be only advancing the just punishment of the outraged law!

Quickly resolving to follow in the footsteps of Pasquale Solara, Esperance dashed on, utterly regardless of the bushes and briars that impeded his progress and tore great rents in his garments. Soon excited voices reached him, then the noise of a violent struggle. He pushed rapidly forward, intent upon reaching the scene of conflict, where he did not doubt the hapless Annunziata would be found. Soon he indistinctly saw two men engaged in a hand to hand strife. One was evidently Pasquale Solara, for a torch was smouldering on the ground half-extinguished by the damp moss, and the young man caught an occasional flash of a knife such as the shepherd had carried when he passed him, but beyond these circumstances all was supposition, for the identity of the contending men could not be made out in the obscurity.

Grasping his pistol tightly, Esperance was about declaring his presence when the figure of a man sprang up before him with the suddenness of a flash of lightning, seeming to emerge from the very ground at his feet. At that instant the torch gave a brilliant gleam and went out, but in that gleam Esperance recognized the man who opposed his progress as the strange peasant he had seen reading "Caesar's Commentaries" the previous afternoon by the brook in the vicinity of the Solara cabin. Was he, too, mixed up in the abduction, and how? Again the suspicion returned to Esperance that he was the confederate, the accomplice of the Viscount Massetti.

"Remain where you are!" commanded the intruder, sternly. "If you advance another step, the consequences be upon your own head!"

"Stand aside and let me pass!" thundered the young man, presenting his pistol at his opponent's head. The other gave a low laugh, made a quick movement and Esperance's weapon went whirling swiftly through the air. Meanwhile the sounds of strife had ceased, and the almost impenetrable darkness of the forest effectually prevented the young man from distinguishing anything a yard distant. As his pistol was hurled from his grasp he closed his fists tightly, set his teeth firmly together and made a frantic dash at the peasant. The latter leaped aside with surprising agility, vanishing instantaneously among the clustering trees. So sudden was his leap that Esperance, carried on by the strong impetus he had given himself, plunged wildly into a clump of bushes and fell headlong upon a thick growth of moss, the softness of which prevented him from sustaining even the slightest bruise. As he came in contact with the moss, his hand touched something cold that sent an icy shiver through him from head to foot. Instinctively he recognized the object as a human face, and passing his hand along he felt the body and limbs. Great heavens! who was this? Had another murder been done? Would there ever be an end to the horrors and mysteries of this dreadful night? The body was that of a man. Esperance arose to his knees and drawing a match-safe from his pocket struck a light. As the flame flashed upon the countenance of the unconscious man, the features of Giovanni Massetti appeared! Esperance was stunned. How was this? The Viscount there, beneath his hand, cold and motionless! Who then could have been the individual with whom old Pasquale Solara had been struggling but a moment since? Truly the mysteries of this night were becoming too complicated for solution! And where was the unfortunate Annunziata? Had she escaped from her captor or captors, had she been rescued, had she perished like her ill-fated brother, or had the abduction been successfully accomplished? None of these questions could Esperance answer. One thing, however, was plain—there was no trace of her now; no clue that he could follow; therefore, further pursuit for the present was useless. Sadly he determined to wait for day and then resolve upon some plan to put into immediate execution to retrieve, as far as possible the great wrong that had been done.

But Giovanni must be attended to. Guilty or innocent, dead or alive, he could not be abandoned where he was. Humanity demanded that some effort be made in his behalf. Perhaps, too, if he were in a condition to speak, some key to the strange, bewildering and terrible transactions of the night might be obtained. Esperance raised him in his arms and carried him to the brook near the Solara cabin. By this time the moon had arisen and in its silvery rays he examined him thoroughly. There was no trace of blood, no wound; only a large bruise on his forehead, as if he had been struck with some heavy object and knocked down unconscious. He was alive, for his heart was beating, and once or twice he had moved on the sward where Esperance had placed him. The young man made a cup of his hands, and, dipping some cool water from the stream, dashed it in the Viscount's face. Instantly he opened his eyes, gazing about him in bewilderment. He sat up and stared wildly at Esperance.

"What is the matter? How came I here?" he asked, in astonishment. Then suddenly putting his hand to the bruise on his forehead, as if it pained him, he continued: "Ah! yes! I remember it all now! Luigi Vampa struck me!"

"Luigi Vampa struck you?" cried Esperance, more amazed than ever.

"Yes, after he had forced me to take a fearful oath to remain silent!"

"Silent about what? The abduction of Annunziata Solara?"

"Hush! hush! Do not mention that girl's name! Vampa or some of his men may be lurking in the vicinity and hear!"

"What has become of her? At least tell me that! You know!"

"As God is my judge, I do not!"

"Were you not with her to-night? Did you not forcibly take her from the cabin?"

"No! no!"

"Who did then?"

"Alas! my oath compels silence on that point!"

"Your oath! That is a very convenient excuse! Giovanni, Luigi Vampa was not here to-night."

"He was. He lurked around the cabin all day, that when darkness came he might commit the blackest deed that ever sullied the record of mankind!"

Instantly Esperance recollected the peasant he had met that afternoon beside the brook, the man who, but a short while before, had opposed his passage and disarmed him in the forest. His vague familiarity with his voice, face and dress was now accounted for. The man was Luigi Vampa. There could be no doubt of it. But why had he abducted Annunziata Solara, as Giovanni's words would seem to infer? Why, save as the confederate and accomplice of the Viscount Massetti? But then how had Giovanni communicated with him, and in what manner had they contrived to arrange the details of their dishonorable plot? Was it possible that old Pasquale had been the medium of correspondence between the two men. Had he been base enough to sell his child? In that case, with whom had he fought so fiercely and desperately in the forest? Why also had the brigand chief sworn Giovanni to silence? Vain questions, admitting of no satisfactory replies. The Viscount's story was incredible; it was, without doubt, a mere fabrication intended to cover and conceal his own guilt in the premises. Still Esperance could not reconcile this theory with the fact of finding Giovanni senseless in the forest.

The young Italian had by this time fully recovered from the effects of the shock he had received. He arose to his feet, and, approaching Esperance, said, earnestly:

"My friend, let the past be forgotten. I was wrong and you were right. I ask your pardon. As to the abduction of this unfortunate girl, I assure you that I am entirely innocent of it!"

"But who fired the shot that killed Lorenzo?" asked Esperance, sternly.

"Killed Lorenzo!" cried Giovanni, with unmistakable horror. "Was Lorenzo killed?"

"He was shot to-night and died in my arms!"

"Oh! this is terrible!" exclaimed the Viscount, beads of cold perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. "I assure you, Esperance, I had no hand in this foul murder—I knew nothing of it! I did hear the report of a pistol, but who discharged the weapon or at whom it was fired I could not tell. Everything seemed like a disordered dream!"

As Esperance said not a word in reply, the Viscount continued:

"Again I assert my innocence of the dark crimes that have been committed to-night! Do you not believe my protestation?"

"I know not what to believe," answered the young man. "But I will not consider you guilty until you are proved so."

"Then," cried Giovanni, joyously, "I have a proposition to make to you. Swear that you will be silent about everything that has occurred since we met Annunziata Solara in the Piazza del Popolo, including the terrible events of to-night, and I will start with you for Rome this very instant!"

"And you will renounce your pursuit of the flower-girl?"

"I will renounce it!"

"Do you swear to do so?"

"I swear it!"

"Then, on my side, I here take the oath of silence you require!"

"You forgive me for having quarreled with you?"

"I forgive you!"

"Then let us leave this accursed spot without another moment's delay!"

"So be it!"

They hastily quitted the bank of the little stream and went to the cabin to prepare for their immediate departure. As they passed the spot where Lorenzo's body had lain, Esperance noticed with a start that it was no longer there. They entered the cabin. It was dark and deserted. Esperance lighted a candle and, as he did so, perceived a scrap of paper upon the floor. He stooped mechanically and picked it up. It was rumpled as if it had been crushed in the hand and cast away. The young man straightened it out. It was a brief letter. He held it to the candle and, with a sickening sensation at his heart, read as follows:

DEAREST ANNUNZIATA: All is prepared. We will fly to-night. Be ready. TONIO.

The note was in Massetti's handwriting. Esperance silently passed it to him. The Viscount read it with eyes bulging from their sockets, his fingers trembling so he could scarcely hold the paper.

"The evidence is conclusive!" said Esperance, icily, as Massetti finished reading. "It is a confession! You abducted Annunziata Solara!"

"What can I say to justify myself?" cried Giovanni, bitterly. "Oh! that accursed oath!"

"And you have sworn me to silence, also, wretched man!" said Esperance. "Why was I so weak!"

He looked scornfully at the Viscount, who stood with bowed head. Then he added:

"I understand you now! You did not wish me to betray you, to set the hounds of Justice on your track, to cause you to be punished, branded and disgraced! You were shrewd and imposed upon me. But my oath is sacred—I will keep it! Let us return to Rome at once as we originally proposed. There I will challenge you in due form for an alleged insult, and we will settle this matter at the pistol's mouth!"

In a few moments more they were on their road to the Eternal City, leaving behind them the cabin into which they had brought ruin and death!



CHAPTER X.

THE COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO.

Rome was agitated by a vague scandal, so vague, in fact, that nobody seemed to know the precise details. It had arisen from a newspaper account, given in the indefinite, unsatisfactory way characteristic of Roman journalism. One of the city journals had published the statement that a young and very handsome peasant girl, living with her father in the country beyond the Trastavere, had recently been abducted, report said, by a youthful member of the Roman aristocracy; that the reckless scion of nobility had courted and won her in the guise of a peasant, had carried her off to a bandit fastness and there had eventually deserted her. No names were given. Inquiry at the office of the journal elicited the fact that the proprietors had undoubted authority for the publication of the statement, but no further information could be gained from them. A few days later, however, the same newspaper gave the further particulars that the nobleman had been assisted in effecting the abduction by a young foreigner residing in Rome, and that the brother of the unfortunate girl had been killed in attempting to rescue her. That completed all the intelligence ever vouchsafed to the public in regard to the mysterious affair, and thereafter the journal maintained an unbroken silence respecting the matter. The rumor ran that its proprietors had been bribed by interested parties to say nothing further, but this rumor could not be traced to any reliable source and was, therefore, by many considered a fabrication. No steps were taken by the authorities in the premises, and it was evident that the affair was to be allowed to die out. Still Roman society was considerably excited, conjectures as to the identity of the guilty party and his accomplice being rife in all the fashionable and aristocratic quarters of the city. These conjectures, however, did not grow to positive statements, though insidious hints were thrown out that those who guessed the Viscount Giovanni Massetti to be the culprit were not far out of the way. Massetti, it was known, had been absent from Rome for several days about the period the abduction was supposed to have taken place, but he did not deign to notice the hints current in regard to himself and no one was hardy enough to question him. Nevertheless some color was given to the rumors concerning him by the fact that, immediately on his return to the city, after the absence above referred to, he became involved in a violent quarrel with a young Frenchman, generally supposed to be Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo, who at once challenged him to a duel, but the duel was not fought for some reason not made public, the difference between the two fiery youths having been arranged through the mediation of mutual friends. It was observed, however, and widely commented upon that, although the twain had previously been almost inseparable companions, Esperance after this quarrel studiously avoided the Viscount Massetti, refraining from even mentioning his name.

Meanwhile at Civita Vecchia another act in the drama of Annunziata Solara's clouded life had been played. In that city was located a famous asylum for unfortunate women, founded and managed by a French lady of enormous wealth and corresponding benevolence, Madame Helena de Rancogne, the Countess of Monte-Cristo.[6] This lady was untiring in her efforts to reclaim and rehabilitate the fallen of her sex. She was the Superior of the Order of Sisters of Refuge, the members of which were scattered throughout Europe, but made their headquarters at the asylum in Civita Vecchia, where a sufficient number of them constantly aided Madame de Rancogne in carrying out her good and philanthropic work.

The Refuge, as the asylum was called, was a vast edifice of gray stone with a sombre and cloister-like look. Over the huge entrance door on a tablet of polished metal this sentence was incrusted in conspicuous letters of black: "Be Not Led to Consider Any Unworthy!" It was an utterance of the Countess of Monte-Cristo in the past and had been adopted as the guiding rule and maxim of the Order of Sisters of Refuge. The interior of the building in no way corresponded with its gloomy, forbidding outside. Tall, wide windows freely admitted the ardent rays of the glowing Italian sun, flooding the corridors and apartments with cheerful light and warmth. Crimson hangings and magnificently wrought tapestry of fabulous price adorned the walls, while costly and beautiful statues and paintings, the work of old masters and contemporaneous artists, added to the attractiveness of the numerous salons and drawing-rooms. The great refectory and the dormitories possessed charms of their own, bright colors everywhere greeting the eye and nothing being allowed that could inspire or promote melancholy moods or painful thoughts. There was an immense library, to which all the inmates of the Refuge had free access. It was sumptuously furnished, and the floor was covered with a gorgeous Turkey carpet, so thick and soft that footsteps made no sound upon it, while the brilliant figures of tropical flowers profusely studding it gave the impression of eternal summer. Desks abundantly supplied with writing materials, tables loaded with the latest newspapers and periodicals in all the languages of Europe, luxurious sofas and inviting fauteuils allured those succored by the Countess of Monte-Cristo and her vigilant aids. On every side the library was surrounded with book-cases, containing absorbing romances, volumes of travel, the productions of the celebrated poets, histories and essays, with a liberal sprinkling of religious works, mostly non-sectarian and invariably of a consolatory character. In addition elegantly and thoroughly equipped work-rooms were provided, in which those who were so inclined could practice embroidery, sew or manufacture the thousand and one little fancy knick-knacks at which female fingers are so skilful. Nothing, however, was compulsory, the main object being to afford the inmates of the Refuge agreeable occupation, to elevate them and to prevent them from looking back regretfully to the agitated lives they had led and the vices that had held empire over them in the past. Truly a more generous, unselfish lover of her sex than the noble Countess of Monte-Cristo did not exist.

The protegees of the Sisters of the Order of Refuge embraced women of all ages, all nationalities and all conditions in life. They included Parisian grisettes and lorettes, recruited by Nini Moustache in her coquettish apartment of the Chaussee d' Antin, for Nini had proved a most effective missionary; young girls, who had fallen a prey to designing roues and been abandoned to the whirl of that gulf of destruction, the streets of Paris; Spanish senoritas, who had listened too credulously to the false vows of faithless lovers; Italian peasant girls, whose pretty faces and charms of person had been their ruin; unfortunate German, English, Dutch and Scandinavian maidens; and even brands snatched from the burning in Russia, Turkey and Greece. This somewhat diverse community dwelt together in perfect sisterly accord, chastened by their individual misfortunes, encouraged and upheld in the path of reform by the Countess of Monte-Cristo, who was to all the unfortunates as a tender, thoughtful and considerate mother.

One quiet night, just as darkness had settled down over the streets of Civita Vecchia, a timid knock at the entrance door of the Refuge aroused the portress on duty there. Such knocks were often heard and well understood. The portress arose from her bench, partly opened the door and admitted a trembling young girl, whose crouching and shrunken form was clad in a mass of tattered rags. A thin red cloak was thrown over her shoulders, and her pale, emaciated face spoke plainly of poverty, hardship and suffering. Even Giovanni Massetti would have with difficulty recognized in this wretched outcast the once shapely and beautiful flower-girl of the Piazza del Popolo, for the applicant at the Refuge door was no other than the ill-fated Annunziata Solara. Her beauty had faded away like a summer dream, vanished as the perfume from a withered hyacinth. She stood before the portress silently, with clasped hands, the incarnation of misery, distress and desertion.

"What do you require, my poor child?" asked the portress, tenderly and sympathetically.

"Shelter, only shelter!" replied the girl, beseechingly, in a hollow, broken voice, the ghost of her former full and joyous tones.

"The Superior must decide upon your case," said the portress. "You shall go to her at once."

The woman touched a bell, directing the Sister of the Order of Refuge who answered it to conduct the applicant to the apartment of Madame de Rancogne. The trembling Annunziata was led through a long corridor and ushered into a small, but cosy office in which sat an elderly lady of commanding and aristocratic presence, whose head was covered with curls of silver hair, and whose still handsome countenance wore an expressive look in which compassion and benevolence predominated. This lady was the celebrated Madame Helena de Rancogne, whose adventures and exploits as the Countess of Monte-Cristo had in the past electrified every European nation. She arose as Annunziata entered, welcoming her with a cordial, comforting smile.

"Sit down, my child," she said, in a rich, melodious voice. "You are fatigued. Are you also hungry?"

Annunziata sank into the chair offered her, covering her face with her thin hands.

"Alas! signora," she replied, faintly, "I have walked many weary miles and have not tasted a morsel of food since dawn!"

"Take the poor child to the refectory," said the Countess to the Sister, who had remained standing near the door. "After her hunger has been appeased, I will see her again and question her."

Half an hour later, Annunziata, refreshed and strengthened by her meal, once more sat in the office with the Countess of Monte-Cristo.

"My child," said the latter, "what is your name?"

"Annunziata Solara."

"You have applied for shelter here the portress informs me. Do you know that this is an asylum for the fallen of your sex?"

"I know it, signora; that is the reason I came."

"Have you repented of your sin and do you desire to lead a better life?"

"I have repented bitterly," answered the girl, bursting into a flood of tears, "oh! how bitterly God alone knows! I wish to hide myself from the world; I wish to atone for my shame by whatever good action my hands can find to do."

"It is well," said the Countess, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "The field is wide, and the Order of Sisters of Refuge, although large, is always open for new additions. Much good has already been done, but more remains to be accomplished, infinitely more. You shall be received and given an opportunity to share in the great work."

"From the depths of my soul I thank you!" sobbed the girl. "I will try earnestly to be worthy of your benevolence!"

"Tell me your story now," said the Superior. "I cannot believe that the guilt was altogether yours."

"I am grateful, signora, for those words. I was thoughtless and indiscreet, but not criminal. Happy and contented in my humble peasant home, I was pure and innocent. I knew nothing of the wickedness of men, of the snares set to entrap unwary young girls. I lived with my father and brother in the vicinity of Rome, selling flowers in that city from time to time. I had never had a suitor, never had a lover. My heart was free, filled with the joyousness of youth. I had been told that I possessed a fair share of beauty, but that neither made me vain nor inclined me to coquetry. Oh! signora, I shall never be so happy again!"

Emotion overcame her and her tears started afresh. The Countess soothed her and she continued:

"One fatal night, my brother brought two strange young men to our cabin. They appeared to be peasants like ourselves, and one of them had been wounded in a fight with a brigand. They remained with us for some days. I nursed the wounded man, who, when he grew convalescent, made love to me. I listened to his ardent declarations, submitted to his endearments. I grew to love him in my turn, and, oh! signora, I believed in him, trusted him. At that period I had nothing to reproach myself with, and Tonio, that was my admirer's name, seemed sincerity itself. One day he asked me to fly with him, but our conversation was interrupted and I gave him no answer. I was confused, I did not know what to do. That evening I received a letter from him—I found it on the table in the room I occupied, concealed beneath my work-box—telling me that everything was prepared for our flight that night, and asking me to be in readiness. I was terrified. I could not understand why he wished me to fly with him if everything was as it should be, as my father and brother would not have objected to any proper suitor for my hand on whom I had bestowed my heart. For the first time I was suspicious of Tonio, and I resolved to pay no attention to his letter. On the morrow I would see him and tell him to speak to my father and brother. Alas! that opportunity was not given me. Oh! that horrible, horrible night!"

She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. When she looked up she was ghastly pale, and her voice quivered as she resumed:

"That dreadful night, as I lay upon my bed, wrapped in slumber, I was suddenly aroused by hearing some one in my chamber. It was very dark and I could not see the intruder. I started up in terror, but a hand was placed firmly over my mouth. I was torn from my bed and borne in a man's arms from the cabin. I struggled to release myself, but in vain. My abductor appeared to possess the strength of a giant. There was no moon, but in the dim starlight I could see that the man was masked. He hastened with me into the neighboring forest. There he accidentally struck his right arm against the trunk of a tree and his hand dropped from my mouth. Instantly I uttered a loud, piercing cry, but the hand went back to its place again almost immediately, and I was unable to give vent to another sound. My cry, however, had been heard by my brother, who hastened to my assistance. He overtook my abductor in the forest, and, though unarmed, at once attacked him. The man dropped me and turned upon my brother. A fierce struggle ensued, during which the mask was struck from my abductor's face and, to my horror, I thought I recognized Tonio. Suddenly there was a report of a pistol. I had watched the conflict, unable to move. I saw my brother stagger; blood was gushing from him. I could endure no more; I fell to the ground in a swoon.

"When I recovered my senses, I was in a strange hut. Savage looking men, whom I took to be bandits, were guarding me. How long I remained in the hut I do not know, but it must have been several days. At times a masked man came to me, telling me that he was Tonio and pressing his suit upon me. I refused to listen to him, upbraiding him for tearing me from my home and wounding my brother. I told him his conduct was not that of a lover, but of a villain. I implored him, if he possessed a spark of manhood, to set me free, to send me to my father. He informed me that I was his captive and should so remain until I yielded to his wishes. I repulsed him with scorn, with the energy of desperation. Ultimately he overpowered me by sheer force, and compelled me to yield. Then I saw him no more. I wandered about the hut like one demented. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. I was in despair. Shame and degradation were henceforth my portion.

"After my abductor's departure, a new comer appeared among the brigands. He seemed to be their chief. He expressed pity for me, and told me that my abductor was not a peasant, but a young Roman nobleman, the Viscount Giovanni Massetti. I cared nothing for this revelation. I had no thought of vengeance; my sole desire was to hide myself from the gaze of the world, to avoid the pitiless finger of scorn. Eventually the bandit chief took me back to my home. There I found my father, learning from his lips that my brother was dead. This intelligence made my sorrow utterly unbearable. My father was moody and morose. For days at a time he did not speak to me. He appeared to have lost all paternal affection. Finally I left the cabin. I had heard of the Refuge and determined to seek its shelter. I walked to Civita Vecchia, and to-night found myself at your door. Such, signora, is my sad history. I have told you the whole truth. You see I am not altogether to blame."

As Annunziata concluded, the Countess of Monte-Cristo drew her upon her bosom.

"My poor girl," said she, in tender, pitying tones, "you have, indeed, tasted the bitterness of life and have been more sinned against than sinning. But you are my daughter now. The Sisterhood of the Order of Refuge has covered you with its protecting shield."

FOOTNOTE:

[6] For a full account of the life and career of "The Countess of Monte-Cristo," see that powerful, romantic and absorbing novel, "The Countess of Monte-Cristo," published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia.



CHAPTER XI.

THE BEGGAR AND HIS MATES.

A year had elapsed since the events already recorded. Zuleika, having finished her studies at the convent school of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart, the Count of Monte-Cristo had quitted Rome and, with his family, was established in Paris in the palatial mansion, No. 27 Rue du Helder, formerly occupied by the Count de Morcerf. He was a member of the Chamber of Deputies, representing Marseilles, and was wedded to his first love, Mercedes, who had mysteriously reappeared and nursed him through a severe illness, which was immediately followed by their marriage. The revolution of 1848, which had placed M. Lamartine at the head of the Provisional Government, had put power and office within his grasp, but he had declined both, preferring to work in the wider field of universal human freedom. His eminent services during the revolution had rendered him immensely popular with the masses, and the fame of his matchless eloquence added to the vast influence he so modestly wielded. His colossal wealth, which he lavishly used to promote the great cause he championed, also tended to make him a conspicuous figure in the political and high social circles of the capital, though he strove to court retirement.

Zuleika and Esperance fairly adored their mild, kindly stepmother, who, on her side, was as devotedly attached to them as if they had been her own children. The Count noted this mutual attachment, which time only served to strengthen, and it filled his heart with joy and gratification. The family was, indeed, a happy one, and even the servants shared the general felicity.

Mlle. d' Armilly's influence over Captain Joliette great as it undoubtedly was, had been insufficient to induce that gallant and honorable young soldier to seek a rupture with the wonderful man to whom he was so vastly indebted and whom he so highly revered. This had at first caused a coldness between the revengeful prima donna and her admirer, but a reconciliation had ultimately taken place between them and they were now man and wife. Prior to their marriage Mlle. d' Armilly had acknowledged herself to be Eugenie Danglars, and thus the motive of her bitter hostility to the Count of Monte-Cristo was revealed. She had retired from the operatic stage, and had received a large sum of money, stated to be a legacy from her father, but generally believed to be a gift from the Count, intended by him in some degree to make amends to her for the sufferings she had endured by reason of his vengeance on the banker Danglars. The prima donna's brother Leon had turned out to be a woman masquerading in male attire, no other than Mlle. d' Armilly herself, Eugenie's former music-teacher, who had loaned her name to her friend when the latter started on her operatic career. These transformations had been immediately followed by another, Captain Joliette discarding his pseudonym and appearing as Albert de Morcerf. Paris had talked over and wondered at all this for a week, and then had completely forgotten it, turning its fickle attention to newer and more engrossing sensations. Albert's marriage and the legacy healed the breach between Eugenie and the Count of Monte-Cristo, and the young couple, together with the real Mlle. d' Armilly, had been added to the happy family in the mansion of the Rue du Helder.

The Viscount Giovanni Massetti had appeared in Paris. Immediately after his reckless visit to Zuleika in the convent garden and his wild interview with her there, he had gone to the Count of Monte-Cristo, avowed his love for Haydee's child and solicited her hand in marriage. He had been told to wait a year, a period he had passed he scarcely knew how, but it had been an eternity to him, an eternity fraught with restless anxiety, with alternations between ardent hope and the depths of despair. The expiration of his probation found him in the mansion of the Rue du Helder, renewing his earnest suit with the Count, who had granted him permission to win his daughter if he could. The young Italian had at once sought Zuleika, who had welcomed him as her lover and betrothed. Then a clash had suddenly arisen; Esperance had expressed his abhorrence of his sister's suitor, had given mysterious hints that had recalled the half-forgotten Roman scandal, and a separation between Giovanni and Zuleika had ensued, the former refusing to speak out and clear himself, pleading his terrible oath of silence. In the course of his vague, unsatisfactory disclosures, Esperance had unguardedly mentioned the name of Luigi Vampa, and the Count of Monte-Cristo had written to the brigand chief, requesting such information as he possessed in regard to the impenetrable mystery. Vampa's reply had been a fearful arraignment of the youthful Viscount, but Zuleika could not believe her lover the depraved and guilty wretch the brigand chief represented him to be, asserting that there was something yet unexplained, something that would effectually exculpate him could it be reached. The Count of Monte-Cristo had at first inclined to the belief that Massetti was merely the victim of circumstances, of some remarkable coincidence, but Vampa's letter scattered this belief to the winds and he demanded that the Viscount should conclusively prove his innocence. Zuleika had meanwhile banished her lover from her presence, but her heart yearned for him and defended him in spite of everything. She therefore sent him Vampa's letter, assuring him of her belief in his innocence and commanding him to prove it to her and to the world. Thereupon Giovanni had instantly quitted Paris. His sudden disappearance seemed like a flight; it caused scandal's thousand tongues to wag remorselessly; but, although he left no word for her, Zuleika knew her command had sent him to Italy to clear his name and record in her eyes; she was firmly convinced that she would see him again, that he would return to Paris rehabilitated.

Such was the general condition of affairs, as affecting the Monte-Cristo family, at the time the thread of this narrative is resumed.

It was the month of July. The heat in Paris was intense, absolutely stifling; a white glow seemed to fall from the breezeless, yellow atmosphere, scorching the very pavements; for weeks there had been no rain, not the slightest sign of a cloud in the pitiless heavens. The streets were almost deserted; even that favored thoroughfare of fashion, the Rue de la Paix, boasted of but few promenaders; the only spot in request was the Bois de Boulogne, with its magnificent trees and deliciously shaded avenues; the Champs-Elysees, throughout its entire extent, from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de l' Etoile, was like a sun-swept desert, and its picturesque marchands de coco, with their shining mugs, snow-white aprons and tinkling bells, found only a limited demand for their liquorice water and lemon juice, while even the Theatres de Guignol failed to arrest the rare passers.

In the vast garden of the Monte-Cristo mansion, notwithstanding its power elsewhere, the sun seemed to have been successfully defied; there the trees, shrubs and plants were not parched, but preserved all their freshness and beauty, suggesting the coolness of early spring rather than the sweltering heat of midsummer, while the parterres were brilliant with gorgeous bloom and penetrating perfumes loaded the air. Near a little gate opening upon the Rue du Helder, early one morning, Zuleika and Mlle. d' Armilly were sitting on a rustic bench beneath an ample honeysuckle-covered arbor. They had come to the garden from the breakfast-room to rest and chat after their meal. The former music-teacher was telling her companion of her stage experience and of the many adventures she had met with during her operatic career. In the midst of a most interesting recital, she suddenly paused, fixing her eyes upon the little gate, with a cry of surprise and terror. Zuleika followed the direction of her glance and gave a start as she saw, leaning against the bars of the gate, a sinister-looking man, clad in dusty, tattered garments, who was peering at her companion and herself with eyes that glittered like those of some venomous serpent. When he noticed that he was observed, the man pulled a greasy, weather-stained cap from his head, disclosing a profusion of matted, whitened locks, and, stretching a grimy hand, with hooked fingers that resembled the claws of an enormous bird, through the bars, said, in the hoarse tones peculiar to the outcasts of the streets:

"Charity, for the love of God!"

The man seemed more like a thief than a beggar. Nevertheless, Mlle. d' Armilly, who was the first to recover her self-possession, drew a few sous from her pocket and advanced to place them in his palm. As she came closer to him, the mendicant acted very strangely. Instead of taking the money, he suddenly withdrew his hand, staring at Mlle. d' Armilly with an expression of mingled terror and amazement upon his evil countenance. Then he quickly turned from the gate, thrust on his cap and started off at a rapid pace. Mlle. d' Armilly also was singularly affected; she dropped the sous, became ashy pale and would have fallen to the ground had not Zuleika sprung to her side and caught her in her arms.

"What is the matter, Louise?" cried the girl, astonished at the beggar's behavior and still more so at the effect he had produced upon her companion.

"I have seen a ghost!" replied Mlle. d' Armilly, in a startling whisper.

"A ghost?"

"Yes! Oh! let us quit the garden at once!"

"The ghost of whom?"

"I dare not say! Come, come, I cannot remain here another second! How fortunate that young Madame de Morcerf was not with us! She would have been driven mad!"

"Albert's wife? You talk wildly, Louise. What interest could she feel in that wretched outcast?"

"What interest? Do not ask me. I cannot, I must not tell you! Oh! it is terrible!"

"Will you tell Albert's wife of what you have seen?"

"No! a thousand times no! She must not even suspect that man's return from the grave! I entreat you to say nothing to her or any one else!"

"I shall be silent upon the subject; but that beggar was not a ghost; he was a most substantial reality. Something frightened him away, something, doubtless, that he saw in the street, perhaps a sergent de ville. Your recognition of him was fancied."

"It was not fancied. But we must not stay here; I would not see that face, those eyes again for worlds!"

Zuleika took her friend's arm and walked with her towards the mansion, endeavoring as they went along to reassure her, to reason her out of her fright. Her efforts, however, proved altogether futile. Mlle. d' Armilly was utterly unnerved and at once retired to her room.

Notwithstanding her willingness to believe that Mlle. d' Armilly had been deceived with regard to the identity of the beggar and, in her confusion, had confounded him with some one else, Zuleika could not altogether shake off a feeling of vague apprehension, of ill-defined terror when she thought over the singular conduct and wild agitation of the former music-teacher in the quiet and solitude of her own chamber. Why had Mlle. d' Armilly been so stricken at the sight of the mendicant? Why had she so earnestly entreated her to say nothing of what had occurred to any one, and, especially, to avoid all mention of the matter to Albert de Morcerf's wife? Mlle. d' Armilly had seen too much of the world to be frightened by a mere trifle. Was it possible that the ragged outcast had been in some way identified with young Madame de Morcerf's operatic career, that he had been her lover? The latter supposition would furnish a plausible cause for the former music-teacher's terror, as the reappearance of a lover might lead to disclosures well-calculated to seriously disturb the happiness and tranquillity of the newly-made husband and wife. Zuleika had heard that Eugenie had been much courted during the period she was on the stage, that she had numbered her ardent admirers by scores, but this man seemed too old, too forlorn, to have recently been in a position to scatter wealth at the feet of a prima donna. Besides, Mlle. d' Armilly had spoken of him as a ghost and had appeared to refer him to a period more remote. Zuleika had also heard of Mlle. Danglars' broken marriage-contract away back in the past. Could this beggar be the scoundrel who had masqueraded under the assumed title of Prince Cavalcanti and had so nearly become her husband? Perhaps; but even if he were that unscrupulous wretch, what harm could his reappearance do at this late day, now that the old story had been thoroughly sifted and almost forgotten? Albert was well aware of all the details of the Cavalcanti episode, and it was hardly likely that anything further could be exposed that would disturb either him or his wife. No, the grimy, white-haired, sinister-looking stranger could not be the quondam Prince; he was some one else, some one more to be feared. But who was he, if not the miserable son of Villefort? Zuleika was more perplexed and disturbed than she was willing to admit, even to herself. If she could only speak with the Count of Monte-Cristo, tell him all, some explanation of the mystery might, doubtless, be obtained, an explanation that would, at least, calm her vague fears; but that was impossible; her promise to Mlle. d' Armilly to be silent sealed her lips as effectually with her father as with young Madame de Morcerf. Whatever might be her fears, she would have to bear them alone, or, at the best, share them with Mlle. d' Armilly, who, evidently, would give her no further satisfaction.