"Tell me what to do; I am ready!"

"Will you accomplish my orders with unwavering will and without hesitation?"

"I must do so, since you compel me to it! But fear nothing; my decision is made."

"And suppose that Geronimo Deodati were my enemy?"

"Geronimo Deodati!" exclaimed Julio, in indescribable terror. "Geronimo, your intimate friend? That noble and generous cavalier who loves you as a brother? He is as gentle as a girl!"

"He is a false friend, a traitor."

"Geronimo gave you the wound on your face?[15] He would betray you and seek your ruin? That is false, false! It is impossible!"

"He is my mortal enemy. You shall kill him, I say!" exclaimed Simon Turchi, in a menacing voice.

"Must I kill the Signor Geronimo? Ah! to what horrible crime would you urge me?" said Julio, in a plaintive tone.

Simon seized his servant by the arm, shook him violently, and whispered hoarsely in his ear: "Pietro Mostajo, remember the superintendent of Lucca!"

Julio, as if stupefied, said not a word.

Simon arose and walked towards the door, saying: "It is well; I will go and deliver you up to justice."

The terrified servant sprang after him, retained him, and said, supplicatingly: "I submit myself to your will, and accept the fate I cannot escape. I have never before committed a murder; you take his blood upon yourself, do you not, signor? Tell me when I must accomplish this horrible crime."

"This very day, Julio."

"To-day?—so soon?"

"To-morrow would be too late."

"Well, command; the sooner the better."

"To-day is the eve of May. Geronimo intends to serenade Miss Van de Werve. Only two lute-players will attend him. He invited me to accompany him. I will go to bed at the factory under pretence of indisposition; all the servants will know that I have not left my dwelling. Do you put on the old Spanish cape which has been laid aside for five years; no one will then recognize you. You must be in Hoboken Street, near the Dominican Convent, before eleven o'clock. There is at that spot a well which Geronimo must pass both in going and returning. Hide behind the well until Geronimo approaches, then rush upon him and deal him a fatal blow; strike several times. The lute-players are cowards, and they will run away. Take from the dead body of Geronimo a pocket-book which you will find in a pocket on the left side of his doublet; there is in this pocket-book a writing which he took from me by a cheat. Leave the spot after having accomplished this, and return by the darkest streets; you will not be discovered. Above all, do not forget the pocket-book."

Julio's countenance expressed stupefaction and terror. During the development of the frightful plot he kept his eyes fixed on his master's lips, and he continued to stare at him without moving.

"Well," asked his master, "is not the project cunningly devised?"

"It is astonishing, astonishing!" stammered the servant, lowering his eyes.

"You are ready, I suppose, to strike the blow? But why do you hesitate? Are you afraid?"

"No, no; but let me reflect a moment," said Julio.

After a few minutes of silence, he looked at his master, and said:

"With your permission, signor, I will say that the plan, as you have arranged it, appears to me to be fraught with danger to yourself. Suppose that Geronimo should perceive me too soon and defend himself; that by chance the lute-players should be men of courage; that I should be wounded or made prisoner: any of these events might occur. I would certainly be broken on the wheel or burned alive. That, however, would be of little consequence, if by my death I could be useful to you. But I am your servant, and known as such by all your acquaintances; and as I could have no motive of hatred or vengeance against a cavalier who has never spoken an unkind word to me, you would be at once suspected of having ordered the murder."

"And you, I suppose, would betray me?" said Turchi, with bitter irony.

"Betray you, signor? that would not save myself; but under torture my tongue might against my will pronounce your name."

Simon strode up and down the room, muttering between his teeth with suppressed rage. His servant glanced at him stealthily, with an almost imperceptible smile of joy and triumph.

At last Simon stood still in the middle of the room; the scar on his cheek was of a fiery red, and his eyes rolled around restlessly.

"Shall I then be forever ruined? Nothing is left me in the world but misery and infamy! Julio, is the arm-chair progressing?"[16]

"The arm-chair! Then the arm-chair was destined as a snare for Geronimo?" said the servant, stupefied. "What do you mean?"

"No, no, the chair would come too late!" said Simon Turchi, in an agitated voice. "Talk no more about it; this evening you must lie in wait for Geronimo and kill him. It is decided; it must be done!"

"I know a means to accomplish your purpose without danger either to you or me, signor," said the servant.

"Ah, if what you say be true! Tell me this means of safety!"

"There lives in the parish of Saint Andrew a man of giant stature and strength; he is named Bufferio; he will do anything for money; whether it be to beat, wound, or kill a man, it is all the same to him. He fulfils his mission to the satisfaction of his employers, and he never betrays a secret. He has five or six intrepid companions engaged in the same trade as himself; they may be relied upon. Give me money to pay this ruffian, and you need have no anxiety; Bufferio will think that I am acting from personal vengeance; besides, he does not know me. Thus neither of us will be suspected nor accused should the affair prove unsuccessful."

Simon seemed surprised by Julio's words, and he remained a few moments in deep thought. By degrees a smile parted his lips; it was evident that the proposed plan met his approval. He opened his purse and put four gold pieces in Julio's hand.

"Is that sufficient?" he asked.

"You jest, signor," replied the servant. "Four gold pieces for the life of a nobleman!"

Simon handed him four more.

"Will that do?" he said.

"It is not enough yet."

"How much will be required?"

"I do not know. Perhaps twenty crowns."

"Twenty? I have only fifteen about me, with some small change."

"Give me all, signor. If I had not enough I should be obliged to return without concluding the affair."

Simon heaved a deep sigh and emptied the contents of his purse into Julio's hand.

"You will bring me back what is left, will you not?"

"Certainly; but I do not think much will remain."

"Come, Julio, I am in a hurry to return to the factory. Fulfil your mission skilfully, and I will recompense you largely. But a thought strikes me. The pocket-book must not fall into the hands of Bufferio."

"I had forgotten that," said Julio, embarrassed.

"Ah! I have it!" said Simon Turchi, after a moment's reflection, "A little before ten o'clock you must go to the house of Geronimo and tell him I am ill with fever, and that I have sent you in my place to accompany him armed. Follow him closely, and when he falls, take the pocket-book from him. Tell Bufferio that it is an unimportant document."

Julio made a movement of displeasure on receiving this new order. He had rejoiced in the idea of not being obliged to witness this wicked attack, and now he was commanded to take part in it. For fear of being subjected to something worse, he did not venture to make any remark.

"Go now," said Simon Turchi, "and get the old Spanish cape. It may serve to disguise you from Bufferio. Gird on a sword also, that Geronimo may think you are armed for the purpose of defending him in case of attack."

The servant took the lamp from the table and prepared to obey the order.

"What are you doing?" said his master. "Are you going to leave me in the dark? Are you afraid to go without a light?"

"I might knock my head against the beams, for I have forgotten where the cape was put."

"You had it in your hands only three days ago. You are afraid in the dark, Julio. Take the lamp."

The servant soon returned. He had the Spanish cape around his shoulders. It was a wide cloak, in which the whole body might be wrapped; and when the hood was drawn down it entirely concealed the face.

The master and servant descended the staircase in silence and approached the little garden-gate. There Julio put the lamp upon the ground and extinguished it.

The lock grated as the key turned; the door was opened and closed, and Simon Turchi and his servant disappeared in the dark and solitary street.



CHAPTER IV.

THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION—THE ASSASSINATOR SLAIN.

A black shadow gliding like an almost impalpable spot, might be seen moving along the street of Saint John.

Thick clouds covered the sky. Not a star was visible. Here and there—at the corners of the streets and alleys—flickered a small lamp, lighted before an image of the Virgin; but these slight flames, far from diminishing the obscurity, shone in the foggy atmosphere as glowworms in the woods, which glitter but do not give light.

Silence reigned in the deserted streets. If the inhabitants, behind their oaken windows, heard occasionally some sound interrupting the stillness of the night, it was the hurried step of some benighted artisan who made as much noise as possible with his feet in order to frighten away the robbers; or it was the slow tread of a highwayman, who, listening attentively and peering through the darkness, was on the watch for his prey; or it might be the watchmen, who cried the hour and made the pavement resound under the stroke of their halberds as if to give evil-doers a warning of their approach.

The shadow gliding at this moment along the street of St. John was that of a man completely enveloped in a large cloak, his head so covered by the hood that his eyes alone were visible. As in passing before an image of the Virgin a feeble ray from a lamp fell upon him, one might have seen as he hurried along that his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Was this person an evil-doer, bent upon the commission of some crime, or, fearing danger, was he securing to himself the means of defence?

However that may be, he pursued his way undisturbed and reached a narrow winding alley, from beneath the ground of which seemed to proceed the confused noise of many voices.

The man stopped at the entrance of a cellar, to which admission was gained by a ladder, and listened to the joyous sounds which issued from within.

He put his hand in his pocket and chinked some pieces of money.

"The sign of the Silver Dice!" said he, sighing. "How merry they are! The dice are rolling upon the table. Shall I not risk a shilling? Only one?"

Yielding to the irresistible temptation, he placed his foot upon the ladder; but a sudden thought seemed to arrest him. He sprang back, trembling, and hastened from the cellar. A little farther in the street he stopped and murmured in an anxious voice:

"Heavens! what was I about to do? Risk the money upon dice? I would certainly have lost the whole. Pietro Mostajo, do not forget the Superintendent of Lucca! I am saved. Infernal temptation! I was about to stake my head. But, perhaps, I would not be unlucky. I might win a fortune. The temptation returns. No, no, I must go seek Bufferio, and I have no time to lose. He lives yonder: a low dark door beside the pump."

As he said these last words, he proceeded down the alley, but soon stopped near the pump, and said in an undertone:

"Bufferio lives here. How dark it is! I can hardly see the door; but I am not mistaken. Here the terrible ruffian has his lair. Strange, how I tremble! Perhaps it is a warning of some misfortune about to happen to me! Suppose they should take my money and murder me to conceal the theft. What shall I do? Shall I tell my master that I could not find Bufferio? Alas! the Superintendent of Lucca!"

After a moment of anxious thought he walked towards the low door, saying, with a sigh:

"Come, come; I can do nothing else. Of two evils choose the least!"

Although his words indicated an energetic resolution, his hand trembled as he raised the knocker of the little door and twice let it fall.

It gave out a deep hollow sound, as though it were the door of a vault for the dead.

A long time passed, and no noise within gave evidence that his call was heeded.

The visitor became still more terrified in the supposition, that no one was in the house, and that consequently he would be obliged to return, without concluding the affair, to his master, who would not believe him.

In the little dark door was a small opening, protected by a grating. Behind the iron bars two eyes were fixed on the person who had knocked, and if he had been left apparently unnoticed, it was probably because two inquisitive eyes endeavored to pierce the darkness in order to recognize the untimely visitor.

A harsh voice at last asked from behind the grating:

"Who knocked?"

The man in the cloak started back. The unexpected question so close to his ear made him tremble violently. However, he soon controlled himself and replied in Italian:

"Woman, I do not understand the Flemish tongue. You must know Italian, as Bufferio is a Roman. Tell me if Bufferio is at home."

"Who are you?" she replied, in Italian jargon.

"Who am I? I come to arrange a secret affair with Bufferio, and I do not choose to tell my name."

"You are an agent of the bailiff, and you wish to deceive me. Go on your way and leave me in peace. Bufferio is not at home."

The man took some pieces of silver from his pocket and rattled them together.

"You are mistaken, woman. I have need of the services of Bufferio for an important affair. He may gain a few crowns of gold. I come with the cash in hand: you understand."

Two bolts grated in their rusty staples, and the door opened.

"Enter, signor," said the woman, "and follow me."

"I do not see you; it is as black as Erebus; where is the staircase?" cried out the other.

"Follow me, signor. Give me your hand; I will precede you."

She seized the hand of the visitor, and whilst guiding him to the staircase, she said:

"Your hand trembles, signor. Are you afraid?"

"I afraid!" said the other, in a faltering voice. "Afraid of what? The darkness makes me totter."

"It may be, signor; but I thought your hand was cold and trembling. Here is the staircase; now follow me."

The man ascended the staircase behind her, stumbling up the well-worn steps, striking his head and elbows against invisible objects, and grumbling and swearing as if to show that he was not agitated by fear.

Having reached the first story, the woman opened a door and introduced her companion into a room lighted by the smoking flame of an iron lamp. She showed him a miserable chair, and said:

"Sit down, signor, if you please, and wait a while. I will go call Bufferio, he is engaged at play in the neighborhood. Should any one knock at the door during my absence, pay no attention to it; I will lock the door on the outside and take the key with me."

The man looked at her surprised and troubled. Her bony limbs, the gray locks which fell upon her cheeks, her large mouth and long teeth, made her appear to his eyes a hideous being, a worthy companion for Bufferio.

He listened to the sound of her receding steps, until he heard the key grate in the lock of the door.

Then he looked around him and examined with mistrust and surprise the apartment of Bufferio and the objects it contained.

The room was neither well furnished nor clean: a table, three rickety chairs, an oaken bench, a few earthenware vessels near the fireplace, and a bed, constituted all the furniture. It was not, however, these common objects which fixed the gaze of the visitor. What he could not see without shuddering, was the number of strange arms suspended all around the walls of the room. In the midst of rusty swords, sharp daggers and knives of every size and shape, he saw short clubs with iron heads, steel chains like the bit of a horse, ropes with running knots, and various other articles whose use was inexplicable to him, although he was convinced that these singular instruments were intended for no good purpose.

On the table, beside the lamp, was a large knife, and near it a piece of linen and some sand for scouring, showing that the woman had been occupied in cleaning these arms when the knock at the door interrupted her.

All these instruments of murder filled with terror the heart of the man who was contemplating them. He turned his eyes away from them, trembling as he reflected upon the horror of his position. However, a few moments only were left him, for the door of the house soon opened and he heard steps on the staircase.

The woman entered and said:

"Bufferio will soon be here. When he has the dice in his hand, it is difficult to tear him away. Nevertheless, he will come. I think, signor, that he has drank deeply. Look well to yourself, and if you value your life, do not irritate him, for he would make as little scruple of maltreating you as he would of crushing a worm. Apart from that, he is the best man in the world."

She seated herself at the table, took up the knife and linen, and continued her occupation, whilst observing the stranger with a suspicious eye.

He had pulled the hood of the cloak over his face and seated himself in silence, fixing his eye vaguely upon space, like a man wearied by long waiting. He was deeply agitated, and from time to time his whole frame shook. Every time that he glanced towards the table he met the penetrating look of the frightful Megaera, who, while continuing to clean the blade of the large knife, considered him from head to foot, and seemed endeavoring to discover who he was and with what intention he had come.

At last, no longer able to resist his feeling of anxiety, he rose and said:

"Woman, show me the way out. I have not time to wait longer. I will return to-morrow, during the day."

"I hear Bufferio whistling in the street," she replied.

"He is even now placing the key in the door."

The stranger, as if perfectly satisfied with this intelligence, fell back in his chair, with a suppressed sigh, and listened in an agony of fear to the heavy footsteps on the staircase.

Bufferio appeared at the door, and looked distrustfully at the man who had interrupted him at his game.

The ruffian Bufferio was of giant build. He was obliged to stoop in order to enter the door. His head was thrown back defiantly, and his hand rested upon the hilt of a dagger which was held by his girdle. A broad-brimmed hat shaded his face; his whole dress was of dark-brown cloth, scarcely distinguishable in the darkness of night. Under his prominent eyebrows twinkled very small eyes, and a cruel, withering smile played about his mouth.

He made an imperious gesture to the woman and pointed to the door. She left the room grumbling, but gave no other evidence of dissatisfaction.

The ruffian shut the door, took a chair, and said to the stranger, in a rough and coarse voice:

"Perche me disturba? Why do you disturb me? Who are you?"

This question was very embarrassing to the stranger. He replied, stammering:

"Is it necessary, Signor Bufferio, that you should know my name before doing me a service for which I will pay you liberally?"

On hearing these words, the ruffian struck his forehead with his hand, as if he thought he recognized the voice of the visitor; but he did not stop to reflect longer.

"Come tell me quickly what you want; they are waiting for me at the tavern of the Silver Dice, and I have no time to lose."

"It is an affair of importance, Signor Bufferio."

"Yes; my wife told me I might gain a few crowns of gold. Speak. Why do you beat about the bush in this manner? What embarrasses you? Do you think you are dealing with a dishonest man? Fear nothing. Not a hair of your head shall be touched in my house."

This assurance restored the stranger's confidence, and he said, in a more steady voice:

"Signor Bufferio, you must know that I have an enemy who insults and outrages me, and who threatens to drive me to ruin."

"I understand. You wish to be avenged by my instrumentality."

"Yes, signor. How many golden crowns do you ask for such a service?"

"That depends upon the rank of the individual, and upon the kind of service you desire. A few blows with a stick, a scratch on the face, do not cost as much as a mortal wound."

"The wound must be mortal, signor."

"And who is your enemy? A nobleman or a common citizen? Rich or poor?"

"He is a nobleman, signor, and the possessor of an ample fortune."

"A nobleman? And who are you, who make yourself responsible for payment?"

"I am a poor servant out of service."

The ruffian smiled incredulously.

"Ah!" said he, ironically, "a poor servant out of service! Come, throw back your hood. You have red hair; you often play at dice; your name is Julio; you live near the bridge De la Vigne with the Signor Simon Turchi. Is not that true? You were trying to deceive me."

Julio, thus unexpectedly recognized, was mute from astonishment, and, trembling from head to foot, stared at the ruffian, who did not appear in the least displeased, but said, in an encouraging tone:

"Be calm; you need not be disturbed because I know who you are. My trade is to keep the most important affairs secret. Fear nothing, I will not betray you."

It was some minutes before Julio had recovered himself sufficiently to speak.

"I am sorry that you know my name," said he; "but no matter. I desire to know, Signor Bufferio, what price you demand for ridding me forever of my enemy?"

"Your enemy?" said the ruffian, laughing. "A gentleman your enemy? You are still endeavoring to deceive me. You mean your master's enemy?"

"No, my personal enemy, who has calumniated me to my master, and who has striven to have me ignominiously discharged."

"And you offer me golden crowns? How long is it since servants became possessed of such treasures? You request to have a mortal wound inflicted upon a gentleman? Well, you must give me fifteen gold crowns."

"Fifteen crowns!" exclaimed Julio, with assumed astonishment. "So large a sum! I do not own that much."

"Then pay me twelve; but it must be in advance, before I strike the blow."

"I will pay you immediately, before leaving."

"Give me your hand, Julio; it is a bargain. Now tell me exactly what you or your master requires of me."

"Not my master: I alone."

"It is all the same. What am I to do, and when is it to be done?"

"This very night, Bufferio."

"To-night? This will oblige me to renounce my game with the Portuguese sailor; and yet I might have won some gold pieces there."

"Listen, Signor Bufferio. To-night, at eleven o'clock, a young nobleman, accompanied by two lute-players, will come from the direction of the convent of the Dominicans; he will turn the corner at Prince Street, and will proceed towards the church of St. James. He will thus be obliged to pass before the stone well at the head of Hoboken Street. You will conceal yourself behind the well with two or three faithful companions, and as the young gentleman passes, you will attack and kill him."

"The affair has been well planned," remarked the ruffian. "I could manage it by myself; but since you desire it, I will take with me a couple of my brave companions. How will I recognize the one I am to strike?"

"His dress is entirely brown, and his cap is ornamented with a white plume; in the darkness you will be able to perceive only the white plume: that will be a certain sign."

Bufferio shook his head doubtfully.

"Have you nothing else to observe?" he asked.

"I will merely inform you that I will accompany the young gentleman, and when he falls, I will take from his person a writing, which, if it were discovered, might involve me in great danger. You will recognize me by this Spanish cape, and I will cry out very loud, that you and your men may know that I am not an enemy."

"Now where are the gold crowns?"

"Do you accept the commission, Bufferio?"

"I will fulfil it as though I were laboring for myself."

Julio took from his pocket some gold crowns, then continued to draw them out one by one, until he held twelve in his hand. He endeavored to conceal from the ruffian that he possessed more than the sum agreed upon; but Bufferio must have suspected his intention, for he smiled, and said in a decided manner:

"You have more gold crowns. I knew it from the first; people do not generally enter into such affairs with only the sum absolutely required. You need not deceive me. Give me the stipulated amount; I ask no more."

As soon as the other had handed him the money, Bufferio approached the lamp, examined and weighed each piece of gold, and then said:

"It is good coin. Have no anxiety, Julio, I will go for my comrades. There is but little time left—only a good half hour."

Julio took leave of the ruffian, and was about to quit the room, but he stopped and said: "Signor Bufferio, you will not tell your companions who requested this service of you?"

"I tell nothing to my companions. The proverb says, If you wish to lose your liberty, trust your secrets to others."

"You perfectly understand what you have to do?"

"Yes, yes. At eleven o'clock, behind the well in Hoboken. Street, a young gentleman with a white plume in his hat. Be quiet, I myself will deal the blow, and I will not miss the mark."

"Adieu, Bufferio."

"Adieu, Julio."

The ruffian accompanied the servant to the lower story, opened the door of the street, and closed it behind him.

When Julio found himself in the open air, he walked a short distance, then stopped, drew a long breath as if a heavy weight had fallen from his shoulders, and said, joyously:

"Heavens! what an escape! I doubt if I am really alive. The difficult affair is at last concluded. The signor says that I am a coward. I would like to see him in that room with that infernal woman and the terrible Bufferio. Now I must go to Geronimo. My greatest difficulty is yet to come. If I get through it successfully, I may well say that I was born under a lucky star. But I cannot tarry, I have still a long distance to walk."

He quickened his pace and soon reached the street on which the Dominican Convent stood; he passed the Abbey of Saint Michael and the Mint, and entered the grand square without being molested.

On the way he kept his hand in his pocket, that he might enjoy the pleasure of passing the gold coin through his fingers. He muttered to himself that he had gained three gold crowns which his master would never see again, were he to live a hundred years. Once free from his present care and anxiety, he would take his seat at a gaming-table, where he would remain all day, and perhaps he could win heaps of gold.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he reached Geronimo's residence and knocked at the door. It was soon opened, and he was conducted into a room on the ground floor, where the young gentleman, in his cap and cloak, seemed to be waiting the arrival of friends.

"Peace be to this house!" said Julio, bowing. "Signor, I bring you a message which I would deliver with more pleasure were it less sad. My poor master is ill with fever, and is unable to leave his bed. He begs you to excuse him from accompanying you to-night to the serenade."

Geronimo's countenance assumed an expression of deep compassion. The young man concluded that his own happiness, his approaching marriage with Miss Van de Werve, had touched the heart of his poor friend, and that his present state of health was the consequence of these painful emotions.

"Did the fever attack him suddenly, Julio?" he asked. "Is he very ill?"

"No, signor. It may not have any bad consequences; but he could not venture to expose himself to the cold and damp night-air."

Geronimo seemed in deep thought.

"Signor, my master did not send me solely to inform you of his indisposition; he directed me to accompany you to the serenade, and to protect you in case of danger. He knows how courageous I am, and that were five or six to attack you, I would not flee before them."

"I accept your services, Julio. You always seemed to me to be a devoted servant. The lute-players have not yet arrived. Go to the kitchen and tell the cook to give you a pint of beer."

Julio went to the kitchen, but found the cook asleep. He awoke him, gave him his master's order, and received the pint of beer.

He expected, while drinking, to talk with the servant, and he had commenced speaking of quarrels, combats, knives, and the heroic deeds in which he had been the actor, but the servant had scarcely seated himself before he fell again into a deep sleep. Julio emptied his glass in silence, until a knock at the door and the sound of stringed instruments announced the arrival of the lute-players.

Geronimo called him, and on entering the ante-chamber he found Geronimo ready to go out with the lute-players.

Julio was troubled on remarking that these latter were armed. If these people were brave men, Bufferio and his comrades would have to deal with an equal number of adversaries. Who could foresee the termination of the struggle? However, he felt reassured on reflecting that Geronimo and the lute-players, being attacked unexpectedly, would not have time to defend themselves.

They left the house together, passed the Dominican Convent, and soon reached Prince Street, at the upper end of which was the stone well behind which Bufferio was concealed, if he had been faithful to his promise.

Up to that time Julio had walked in advance of the others, in order to appear bold and intrepid; he now commenced to fall back, and placed himself in the rear. His heart failed him; for, however well the plans had been laid, the blow might miss its aim, or might not cause death.

They were within about one hundred feet of the well.

The young gentleman, wholly ignorant of the danger which threatened him, was thinking of his unhappy friend, Simon Turchi, overpowered by a heart sorrow, tossing on a bed of suffering, while he was on his way to serenade his beloved Mary. He also, in his own mind, deplored the involved condition of Simon's business affairs, and determined to save him, even at the cost of great personal sacrifices, as soon as his marriage would render him independent.

What would the young cavalier have thought had he known that at a few steps, distance from him, three assassins, hired by Simon Turchi, were lying in wait to kill him. But no, his mind was filled with compassion and affectionate feelings for his cruel enemy.

The little band was not far from Hoboken Street; Julio gazed fixedly into the darkness to discover if any one was near the well.

Suddenly he perceived a dark shadow advancing. Trembling in an agony of fear, and in order to make himself known to the ruffians, Julio suddenly drew his sword and exclaimed:

"Al assassino! Ajusto! ajusto! Murder! help! help!"

But he had spoken too soon for the success of his designs; for, being put upon his guard by this exclamation, Geronimo drew his sword, and placed his back against the wall of the house that he might not be assailed from behind.

The lute-players, screaming from fright, ran away, and Julio stood in the middle of the street brandishing his sword.

All this had passed almost instantaneously after the first alarm given by Julio. The man whom he had seen coming from the well, followed by two companions, rushed to the side of the street where Geronimo had made a stand to defend himself. The assassin, who was in advance of the two others, fell upon Geronimo and gave him a sword-thrust which he supposed pierced his body; but a skilful movement parried the blow, and the aggressor himself fell with such force upon Geronimo's sword that the blade passed through his body.

The assassin fell heavily, and in a plaintive voice, as though bidding adieu to life, exclaimed:

"O mojo! I die! Bufferio is dead!"

Disregarding the villain who had fallen, the gentleman rushed upon the other two and wounded one in the shoulder. Convinced that they had to deal with a powerful and skilful adversary, they turned and fled, Geronimo pursuing them far beyond the well.

Julio followed him, crying, vociferating, and striking with his sword in the dark, as though he were contending with numerous enemies. When Geronimo returned with the servant to the spot where he had left the dead body of the ruffian, he found three or four watchmen calling for help. Many heads were thrust from the windows, and one citizen even ventured out of his house with a lamp in his hand.

The watchmen, having inquired as to what had taken place, examined the body to see if there were any signs of life.

"Leave him!" said one; "it is Bufferio. God be praised! the man has at last met the fate which he deserved."

In the meantime, Julio had commenced to boast. He related that he had to deal with two assassins at once, that he had wounded one in the face, and pierced the other with his sword. How the latter had been able to run away, was unaccountable; no doubt he would be found near at hand, dead or dying.

The young gentleman, who really believed the story of Turchi's servant, thanked him for his assistance, and acknowledged that he owed his life to him, as he had given the warning of the approach of the assassins.

The dead body was removed behind the well until the city authorities should order its burial.

The head watchman approached Geronimo, and said to him:

"Where do you live, signor? Two of my men will accompany you, lest some other accident might befall you. Do not refuse the offer. The villains who escaped might be on the watch for you, in order to avenge the death of their companions."

"What shall I do?" said the gentleman to Julio. "I cannot give the serenade without the lute-players, and, besides, I could not sing after such emotion. But Miss Van de Werve is expecting it, and if I do not go, she will imagine that some accident has happened to me. It would be better for me to see Mr. Van de Werve, so as to remove any cause of anxiety. I accept your offer, watchmen, and I will liberally recompense the services you render me. I must return to Kipdorp, and you will do me the favor to wait a few minutes, in order to accompany me to my dwelling. Follow me."

Geronimo, the watchmen, and Julio soon reached the residence of Mr. Van de Werve. He knocked, and was immediately admitted.

The young gentleman again thanked Julio with the liveliest gratitude for his assistance, and promised to tell his master how courageously he had acted, and the eminent services he had rendered him.

Julio bade adieu, and hastened to his master's dwelling. He was about to knock, but, to his great terror, the door was opened at once, as though some one were waiting for him.

"Is it you, Julio?" asked a man, in the darkness.

The servant recognized his master's voice, and entered the door.

"Well," said he, in a stifled tone, "is he dead?"

"Who?"

"Who! Geronimo?"

"On the contrary, Bufferio is dead. Geronimo ran him through the body."

"Then you have not the pocket-book?"

"Certainly not."

"And the gold crowns?"

"I gave them to Bufferio."

"Pietro Mostajo, you have betrayed me!" hissed the infuriated signor in the ear of his servant, shaking him convulsively by the arm. "Tell me quickly what has happened! Tremble, stupid coward! the Superintendent of Lucca shall know who you are!"

"Ebbene che sia!" answered Julio. "Then the Signor Geronimo shall also know who hired Bufferio to assassinate him."

A hoarse cry like a stifled groan resounded through the vestibule. The door was closed.



CHAPTER V.

VAN DE WERVE'S RECEPTION—SIMON TURCHI'S JEALOUSY AND HATRED.

Mr. Van de Werve, whose large fortune justified a lavish expenditure, was accustomed to receive at his residence every month the principal gentlemen of Antwerp, strangers as well as citizens. His love for art and science induced him to bring together the best artists and the most noted literary men of the day with the high-born, wealthy, and influential members of society at Antwerp; and his house had become the rendezvous of all that was excellent and celebrated in the city.

Nearly the whole of the anterior part of the house was occupied by a vast hall, called the Ancestral Hall, because it was decorated by numberless souvenirs of his illustrious family. The walls, for a certain distance were sculptured in oak wood, so artistically designed, and so delicately wrought, that at the first glance it looked like embroidery in various colors. To produce this effect, the natural brown of the oak had been left in some places. All the rest shone with gold and silver, which was relieved by a beautiful scarlet, brilliant yellow, and the softest sky-blue. The many small figures scattered over the ornaments were highly gilded. From the wooden wainscot arose slight pillars, which, uniting in the Gothic style, supported the heavy beams of the ceiling. Six of these beams were visible: all were covered with highly colored sculptures. Their decorations harmonized with, those of the wainscot, and seemed an expansion of it, as though the architect wished the exquisite ornaments of the beams of the ceiling to be considered a luxuriant verdure, springing from trunks rooted in the oaken wainscot.

The escutcheon of the Van de Werve family, together with the families allied to them, was artistically sculptured in the wood. The emblems and devices were in profusion: lions, wild boars, eagles, ermines, bands and crosses of gold, silver, green, and blue quartz, so numerous and sparkling, that when the noonday sun penetrated into the hall, the eye could with difficulty bear the dazzling magnificence.

The armorial bearings of the Van de Werves, Lords of Schilde, painted in larger proportions than the others, were at the extremity of the hall. They consisted of a black boar on a field of gold, quartered by three chevrons of silver on black, surmounted by a helmet ornamented by mantlings of black and gold, and above this was a boar's head.

Around these family arms shone a large number of escutcheons of smaller size; among others, the coat of arms of the Wyneghem, the Van Immerseel, the Van Wilre, the Van Mildert, the Van Coolput, the Van Bruloch, and the Van Zymaer, families the most nearly related to that of Van de Werve.

Above the wainscot, within the niches formed by the pillars, hung the portraits of some of the most illustrious ancestors of William Van de Werve, as well as his own, in which he was represented as captain of a German company in the service of Charles V.

The portraits did not occupy all the panels formed in the richly carved oak. In a large number appeared valuable paintings from the pencil of the most celebrated masters of Netherlands. The eye rested on the creations of the immortal brothers Van Eyck, the touching Quintin Massys, the intellectual Roger Van der Weydens, the spiritual Jerome Bosch, the laborious Lucas de Leyde, and others whose names were favorably mentioned in the world of art.

In a corner of the room, beside the fireplace, stood a piano richly enamelled in woods of different colors, and upon it lay two lutes and a violin—a proof that the charming art of music was cultivated by the family of Mr. Van de Werve.

From the ceiling were suspended six gilded chandeliers; on the mantelpiece were two candelabras; along the walls, where the pillars formed projections, numerous sconces were fastened; and when Mr. Van de Werve received his friends in the evening, the reflection of the numberless wax candles from the many gold and silver ornaments gave a princely air to the hall.

Three days after the attempted assassination of Geronimo by the ruffian Bufferio, Mr. Van de Werve was to entertain his friends in the evening, it being the time appointed for their reunion. Although he had been deeply moved by the murderous assault, and his daughter Mary had scarcely recovered from the shock, he had not withdrawn the invitations, hoping that the social gathering might help to dissipate painful thoughts.

At the appointed hour the dwelling of Mr. Van de Werve was in a blaze of light. The large double door was thrown open, and in the vast hall were crowds of domestics, the attendants of the guests who had already arrived.

The large parlor was filled with persons of different conditions and ages. There were, however, only men present, for this evening was by a previous arrangement to be devoted to artists, men of letters, and notable men of commerce.

The first salutations had been exchanged among the guests of Mr. Van de Werve; they had separated according to their pleasure in different groups, and were engaged in cordial and familiar conversation.

Five or six of the more aged were seated near a table examining some new works which excited their admiration; others, whose more simple attire proclaimed them to be artists, were showing each other their designs; another party, evidently formed of young noblemen, surrounded Geronimo, and were asking particulars of the recent attempt upon his life.

At the end of the room, not far from the fireplace, were collected the foreigners who were engaged in commerce at Antwerp. Although they had assembled for amusement, they were conversing, through habit, upon the expected arrival of vessels, and the price of gold and different kinds of merchandise. Among these foreigners was to be seen every description of costume, and every variety of tongue could be heard. The Spaniard found himself beside a native of Lucca, the Portuguese near the Florentine, the English with the Genoese, the German next to the Venetian; and, as on Change at Antwerp, they found means to understand each other.

Mr. Van de Werve had at first remained near the door in order to welcome his guests as they entered; but supposing that the greater part of those invited had arrived, he left this place and was walking from group to group, joining in conversation for a few moments, and saying some pleasant words to each.

The old Deodati had seated himself in an arm-chair apart. So many had welcomed him on his arrival at Antwerp, and he had been the object of so much polite attention, that, being fatigued from standing and talking, he was now seeking some repose.

By his side was Simon Turchi, conversing familiarly and in a low tone with the old man. The hypocrite feigned an extraordinary affection for the venerable nobleman, and flattered him by every expression of respect and esteem. They had already spoken of the attempted assassination, and Simon Turchi had expressed his astonishment, for he did not believe that Geronimo had an enemy in the world. It was quite likely that Bufferio had made a mistake as to the individual, a thing which might easily have happened in so dark a night.

While Simon Turchi, with apparent calmness, thus conversed with the old gentleman, he was evidently meditating some wicked design; for while talking, his eyes incessantly wandered to Geronimo, and he endeavored to divine from his countenance the subject of his conversation. He did not for one instant lose sight of Mary's betrothed.

After speaking of the assassination, the old Deodati glanced around the room upon the different groups of guests, and he asked Turchi:

"Who is the gentleman in purple velvet, who is the object of such marked respect from the merchants around him? I do not mean the tall old man, I am acquainted with him, he is the rich Fugger of Augsburg; I am speaking of the one who stands beside him."

"He is a banker, signor," replied Simon Turchi. "He is very rich, and his name is Lazarus Tucher. The gentleman before him is the head of the house of the Hochstetter. The gentlemen conversing with him belong to the distinguished commercial houses of the Gigli, the Spignoli, and the Gualterotti. A little apart, and behind them, is Don Pezoa, the superintendent of the king of Portugal; he is speaking with Diego d'Aro, and Antonio de Vaglio, superintendents from Spain. The gentlemen near them are Italian and Portuguese merchants, whose names I could tell you, for I know them all, but such details would not interest you."

"I am indebted to you for your kindness, Signor Turchi," replied Deodati. "My nephew, Geronimo, would give me all this information, but he is surrounded by his young friends, and as he sees me with you, he is undoubtedly convinced that I could not be in better or more agreeable company. Have the kindness to tell me the name of the fine-looking old man seated near the table, and to give me some information regarding those who are listening to him with so much attention."

"Around the table, signor, are the most learned men of Netherlands. That gray-headed orator is the old Graphaeus, secretary of the city of Antwerp, and the author of several well written Latin works. The young man, on whose shoulder he leans, is his son, Alexander, who is also very learned. Before him is seated Abraham Ortelius, the great geographer, who is regarded as the Ptolemy of his age. Beside Ortelius is his friend and fellow-laborer Gerard, also a learned geographer, and one of the luminaries of the day. The only one whose dress indicates his Italian birth is Louis Guicciardini, a Florentine gentleman, who is here for the purpose of collecting materials for an extensive work on the Low Countries, and particularly on the powerful commercial city of Antwerp. The gentleman plainly dressed, with a black beard, holding a book in his hand, is Christopher Plantin; he is engaged in establishing at Antwerp a printing-press of great importance. Its dimensions are so large that it will occupy the ground on which several spacious houses now stand; hundreds of workmen will be employed all day in composing, correcting, and printing books in every civilized tongue. You must not fail, signor, to visit the building; even in its unfinished state it will cause you astonishment."

"The Netherlands is a favored country," said the old Deodati. "If the climate is not as mild as in our own beautiful Italy, the men are bold, active, intelligent, industrious, and learned, and they possess all the qualifications requisite for the material prosperity and moral progress of a nation. I am surprised to see you, who are a foreigner, as well acquainted with the inhabitants as a native."

"I have lived here many years," replied Turchi. "These gentlemen are frequent visitors at the house of Mr. Van de Werve, and I have seen them so often, that I know them as old friends. Look at the corner near the piano, where those collected together laugh merrily, jest, and chat socially. You may easily recognize them by their light playful manners as artists."

"Yes. Is not that handsome man with noble features Frans Floris, the Flemish Raphael?"

"Yes; he was presented to you yesterday by Mr. Van de Werve, and you may remember how enthusiastically he eulogized Italian art."

"Near him is a singular-looking person; his very attitude is amusing, and his gestures force one to laugh."

"He is Peter Breughel, a humorist, who so designs his pictures that they seem painted only by way of jest. He is, however, in good repute as an artist. I saw recently one of his pictures in which he represents the Saviour carrying his cross to Calvary. In this he represents pilgrims with their staves, Spanish soldiers in doublets, monks and nuns; there is even a statue of the Blessed Virgin suspended on a tree, and that at a time when there was no Christianity, no Saint James of Compostella, neither convents nor Spaniards."

"That is indeed singular," said Deodati, smiling. "It seems to me that such conceits do but very little honor to the artist. Is it a custom among other artists in the Netherlands to sport thus with holy things?"

"No; Signor Breughel is an exception. The other gentlemen in company with the Flemish Raphael are more serious men. Michael Coxie, whom you may distinguish by the gray doublet, excels in his portraits of women. The handsome young man standing behind him is Martin de Vos, a pupil of Floris; he evinces a high order of talent and gives promise of great perfection in his art. The others, as well as I can recognize them at this distance, are Lambert Van Noord, Egide Mostaert, William Key, Bernard de Rycke, and the two brothers Henry and Martin Van Cleef, all celebrated historical, fancy, or portrait painters. Near them is Master Grimmer, a famous landscape-painter; and the gentleman now speaking is a certain Ack of Antwerp, who has painted the large glass windows of the church of Saint Gudula at Brussels. The old man sitting apart near the piano is Christian; he has marvellous skill in playing on many instruments, but he excels most on the violin. You will probably hear him this evening."

Simon Turchi continued to converse familiarly with the Signor Deodati, who was charmed with his intelligence, but still more with the kind consideration which made him refrain from joining in the general conversation in order to entertain an old man.

Geronimo had several times approached his uncle, but each time the latter had playfully sent him away, telling him that the agreeable company of the Signor Turchi sufficed for him, and that he preferred a quiet conversation.

In the meantime the conversation among the guests had become more general. Noblemen and bankers, merchants and literary men, manufacturers and artists, were mingling with each other; rank and condition were disregarded, and the animated conversation of the company resounded through the hall like the humming of a swarm of bees.

At this moment the servants entered, bringing silver waiters on which were wines of every description, pastry, cakes, rare fruits, and other refreshments.

They passed through the room offering the wines to the guests.

"Gentlemen, a glass of Malmsey, Rhenish wine, claret, sherry, Muscatel?"

Whilst these delicious drinks and delicacies were thus distributed, Geronimo never lost sight of Mr. Van de Werve, but observed him with an eye full of hope and expectation.

When at last he saw Mr. Van de Werve leave the room, a bright smile illumined his face. Geronimo knew that Mr. Van de Werve sometimes gratified his friends and acquaintances by allowing his beautiful daughter to be present at their evening reunion for about an hour, and he had been impatiently awaiting the moment when the young girl would appear.

Simon Turchi, although apparently so unmoved, had constantly watched Mary's betrothed, noticed the radiant expression of his countenance, and understood the cause.

Mary was coming! Perhaps the whole company would know that his suit had been rejected, and that Geronimo had succeeded where the powerful administrator of the house of Buonvisi had failed!

This thought deeply wounded his pride. He scowled at Geronimo, who was looking in another direction. Rage and jealousy goaded him almost to madness; he felt that the scar on his face, by its deepening hue, would betray his emotion, and to conceal it he covered his eyes with his hand.

Deodati asked him with interest:

"What is the matter, Signor Turchi? Are you ill?"

"The heat is intolerable," said Simon, endeavoring to master his feelings.

"Heat?" murmured Deodati; "it does not seem to me very warm. Shall I accompany you for a few moments to the garden, signor?"

But Turchi raised his head, and smiling in an unconcerned manner, said:

"Many thanks, signor, for your kindness. I feel much better. I had been looking too long at the large lustre, and its brilliant light made me dizzy. But let us rise, signor, there is the beautiful Mary, la bionda maraviglia!"

Mr. Van de Werve appeared at this moment at the door, and introduced his beloved child. A murmur of admiration ran through the assembly, and room was made for the father and daughter.

The beauty of Mary surpassed all expectation. Her dress consisted of a flowing robe of silver-colored satin, with no other ornament than a girdle of gold thread. Her own blonde hair was arranged around her head in the form of a crown, in the centre of which were placed some white flowers fastened by choice pearls. But the admiration of the spectators was excited by her large blue eyes, her brilliant complexion, the dignified sweetness of her expression, the gentle, innocent, modest smile which mirrored on her face the peace and joy of her soul.

Geronimo had never before seen Mary dressed in this style. On the contrary, she generally wore dark or unobtrusive colors. Decked as she now was in pure white, she had the appearance of a bride. It was, of course, by her father's request; but what did it mean? Did he intend by this to make it known that Mary was betrothed, and would soon be wedded? Such thoughts as these agitated Geronimo as the young girl accompanied her father into the room.

The old Deodati rose and advanced to meet her. Simon Turchi took advantage of this movement to retire a short distance; for, as his eye fell on the beautiful girl, rage filled his heart as he reflected that this noble and pure woman would have been his wife had not Geronimo blasted the happiness of his life.

The lightning-like glance of hate and envy which he cast upon Geronimo was a sinister menace of death. Happily for him, all eyes were turned towards the young girl, otherwise many a one might have read the dark soul of Simon Turchi and discovered the horrible design he had conceived.

Mr. Van de Werve introduced his daughter to his guests. All expressed in courteous terms their admiration and their pleasure in her society.

The noble young girl received the felicitations and compliments addressed to her with a gentle and dignified self-possession. There were in her manner and tone of voice a rare modesty and reserve, and at the same time an exquisite politeness. Still more astonishing was her rich and varied knowledge. Whether conversing with a Spaniard, Frenchman, Italian, or German, she spoke to each in his own tongue; but the beautiful Italian language assumed additional sweetness on her lips.

When presented to the old Deodati, she took both his hands and spoke to him so tenderly and affectionately that, overcome by emotion, he could only say a few grateful words in acknowledgment.

Passing by Simon Turchi, she said cheerfully:

"God be praised, Signor Turchi, that your health is so soon restored! I am happy to see you here this evening. I am sincerely grateful to you, signor, for the friendship you manifest to the nephew of Signor Deodati. You have a good and generous heart, and I thank God for having given so devoted a friend to Geronimo and his uncle!"

The gentle words of the young girl were intolerable torture to Turchi; the wound on his face, betraying his emotion, became of a deep-red color. And yet it was absolutely necessary for him to appear calm, and to reply cordially to the kind salutation of the young girl; for there were at least twenty persons near him and within hearing of what passed.

By a powerful effort he mastered his emotion, referring it to the impression made upon him by her appearance. He spoke also of sacrifices, which, even when voluntarily made, painfully wound the heart; of a self-abnegation which could find its consolation in the happiness of a friend, but which failed not to leave a sting in the soul that had cherished fallacious hopes.

Mary understood him, and was grateful for his kindness.

"Thanks, thanks, signor," she said, warmly, as she passed on to salute other guests.

When Mary approached the piano, and addressed a few kind words to Master Christian, many Italian gentlemen begged her to favor them with a canzone.

With her father's permission, the young girl consented to gratify the guests. She hesitated awhile as to the language in which to sing, and was turning over the leaves of a book handed her by Master Christian. The old Deodati expressed a wish to hear a song in the language of the Low Countries, and begging pardon of the Italian gentlemen, Mary said she would sing a Kyrie Eleison in her maternal tongue.

Master Christian seated himself at the piano, to accompany her, and commenced a prelude.

The first notes of the young girl were like a gentle murmur. By degrees her voice became firmer and stronger, until at the end of each strophe the word eleison rose like a sonorous hymn to heaven.

The measure was remarkably slow, simple, and full of a tranquil melody. Mary evidently felt the peculiar character of this chant, for instead of endeavoring to add to the effect, she softened still more her singularly sweet voice, and let the words drop slowly from her lips, as if the songstress herself were ravished in contemplation and was listening to celestial music.

At first the Italian gentlemen exchanged glances, as if to express the thought that this chant could not compare with the brilliant lively style of the Italian music. But this unfavorable opinion was not of long duration. They, like all others, soon yielded to the irresistible fascination of Mary's exquisite voice. They listened with such rapt attention that not the slightest movement was made in the room, and one might have heard the murmur of the leaves in the garden as they were gently stirred by the breeze of May.

Mary had concluded her song and lifted her eyes to heaven with an expression of adoration. All who gazed upon her felt as though they were contemplating an angel before the throne of God. Even Simon Turchi was subdued by admiration, and he even momentarily lost sight of the hatred and jealousy which lacerated his heart.

Mary thus sang:

Kyrie! Lo, our God comes, Mankind to save from ill and bless: What grateful joy should break our gloom And fill our hearts with happiness!

Kyrie eleison!—God is born! A virgin mother gives him birth; And sin's dark bonds asunder torn, Sweet heaven again inclines to earth.

Kyrie!—hear!—the sacred font

Pours forth its saving waters free— And Thou impressest on our front The sign that drives our foes away.

Christe!—anointed victim!—Thou, Who in thy death bestowest life— The healing remedy for woe— Ah! earth with many a woe is rife.

Christe eleison!—brother dear— Our liberator from all ill— Strong in Thy virtue, free from fear, And be our help to virtue still.

Christe eleison! God and man— Our only consolation here— Oh! do not leave us 'neath the ban Of sorrow perilous and drear.

Oh! Kyrie, Father—Kyrie Son— Kyrie Spirit—we adore The Triune God—Thee, only One! Grant we may praise Thee evermore!

Silence reigned in the room some moments after the last sound had died away, and then arose a murmur of admiration, and the young girl was overwhelmed with felicitations.

Whilst being thus complimented, Mary noticed Geronimo at a little distance from her. Desirous, perhaps, of escaping the praises lavished upon her, or, it may be, yielding to a real desire, she approached the young man, drew him towards the piano, and insisted upon his singing an Italian aria.

Geronimo at first refused, but his uncle requested him to yield to the entreaties of the young girl. Taking up a lute, he hastily tuned it, and sang the first word of the aria Italia! in such a tone of enthusiasm that it struck a responsive chord in every Italian heart. The notes fell from his lips like a shower of brilliant stars; his bosom heaved, his eyes sparkled, and his rich tenor voice filling the hall produced an indescribable effect upon the auditors. As his song proceeded, it seemed to gain in expression and vigor, and as he repeated the refrain Mia bella Italia! for the last time, his compatriots were so carried away by their enthusiasm that, forgetful of decorum, all, even the most aged, waved their caps, exclaiming:

"Italia! Italia!"

Tears stood in the eyes of many.

Geronimo was complimented by all present. His uncle called him his beloved son, Mary spoke to him in the most flattering manner, and Mr. Van de Werve shook hands with him cordially.

As to Simon Turchi, he was overpowered; all he had just seen and heard was such a martyrdom; jealousy so gnawed his heart that he sank deeper and deeper into the abyss of hatred and vengeance. He stood a few steps from Geronimo, his eyes downcast, and trembling with emotion.

No one noticed him. Had he attracted attention, his friends would have supposed that, like the other Italians, he had been moved by the chant of his compatriot.

Turchi soon roused himself. Like a man who has taken a sudden resolution, he walked up to Geronimo, smiled pleasantly, and threw his arms around his neck.

"Thanks, thanks, Geronimo!" he exclaimed. "You have made me truly happy by giving me additional cause to be proud of my country."

While embracing him, he also whispered:

"Geronimo, I wish to speak privately to you this evening. I will go to the garden presently; try to follow me; you will be pleased."

Having said these words, he fell back as if to make way for Mr. Fugger, the rich banker, who wished to offer his congratulations.

The servants reappeared in the hall with wines and various delicacies.

Master Christian was tuning his violin. The guests, informed that this excellent artist was about to entertain them with his wonderful skill, drew near the piano.

Geronimo, perplexed by the words of Simon Turchi, watched his friend and sought an opportunity to speak to him alone. He saw him leave the room, and as the entrance of the servants with refreshments, and the desire of the guests to approach Master Christian, had caused a stir among the company, the young man was enabled to rejoin Simon in the garden.

The garden, situated in the rear of the house, although not large, was crossed by several winding paths, and along the wall were wide-spreading trees and blocks of verdure.

When Geronimo entered the garden, he perceived several persons who had left the heated apartment to enjoy the fresh air, and who were walking in different directions.

As he was seeking in the dim light to distinguish Simon Turchi, the latter approached from an arbor, took his arm and led him in silence to a retired part of the garden, where he seated himself on a bench, and said in low tone:

"Sit down, Geronimo! I have good news for you."

"Ah! have you succeeded in obtaining the money?"

"I have been successful. But come nearer! no one must overhear us. A foreign merchant, whom I saved two years ago from dishonor and ruin, at the risk of my own destruction, will furnish me with the means of returning you the ten thousand crowns."

"God be praised!" said Geronimo, with a sigh of relief. "He will not long delay, I hope, to fulfil his generous designs."

"I will pay you to-morrow what I owe you."

"To-morrow? how fortunate!"

"But, Geronimo, I cannot bring you the money; you must come for it yourself."

"It would be a trifle were I obliged to go to Cologne."

"You need not go so far. Only go to my country-seat near the hospital. Silence! some one approaches!"

After a moment's silence, Turchi resumed:

"He has passed. You must know, Geronimo, that the foreign merchant desires his presence in Antwerp to remain unknown, and I have promised to keep him concealed in my garden for several days.[17] He wishes to assist me, but he is over-prudent and distrustful. I will sign the receipt for the sum he lends me. He requires, for greater security, that you sign it also."

"What mystery is this?" said the young man. "I must sign with you for security! Who is this merchant? Is he a fugitive from justice?"

"What has that to do with the affair? It is not my secret, Geronimo, and I promised to conceal his name. If you be saved from your present embarrassment, will you not have attained your object? It is true that you will be my security, but the ten thousand crowns will be in the money vault, and your uncle will not find one florin missing. Your only danger would arise from an inability on my part to meet the note. But you need fear nothing in that respect. In a few months my resources will be abundant. I take this step only to save you from a present imminent danger. You must know, Geronimo, that I would prefer to have you alone for my creditor."

"Certainly, Simon, and I am most grateful to you for your kindness. Will this merchant give me the amount in coin?"

"No, but in bills of exchange on Milan, Florence, and Lucca."

"Good and reliable bills, Simon?"

"You shall be the judge before accepting them. Fear nothing, you shall be fully satisfied."

"Well, I will go. After Change, between five and six o'clock, will that answer?"

"It makes no difference to me, provided I know the hour beforehand."

"Expect me, then, to-morrow, between five and six o'clock. But let us return to the house. Our long absence might cause remark."

Simon Turchi arose, but remained standing in the same spot, and said:

"Geronimo, I have promised the merchant that none but yourself shall know of his presence in Antwerp. Say nothing, therefore, to your uncle, to Mary, nor to any one else. The least indiscretion might disarrange our plans, and be perilous to the stranger. Come alone, without any attendant."

"I will do as you direct," said Geronimo, "but it will be impossible for me to remain until dark. My uncle will be seriously displeased if I go out again at night without a sufficient guard."

"I will not detain you over half an hour."

At that moment a servant from the house entered the garden looking for Geronimo.

"Signor Geronimo," he said, "Mr. Van de Werve is inquiring for you, as Miss Van de Werve is about to retire from the company, and Signor Deodati wishes to return home. He is awaiting you."

The two gentlemen followed the servant; on the way, Turchi again said in a low voice:

"To-morrow, between the hours of five and six."

The old Deodati was already at the door with five or six attendants. He was displeased by the long absence of his nephew, and was about to remonstrate with him. But, by Turchi's explanation, this want of attention was pardoned, and he was even permitted to bid a hasty adieu to Mary and her father.

He returned almost immediately, and offering his arm to his uncle, he left Mr. Van de Werve's house.

As he moved on, Simon Turchi glanced at him entreatingly, as if to insist upon secrecy.



CHAPTER VI.

SIMON TURCHI WREAKS HIS VENGEANCE ON GERONIMO.

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon. Julio was seated in one of the rooms of his master's dwelling, his arms crossed upon his breast. Absorbed in deep thought, he had his eyes fixed on an arm-chair which stood near the only window in the room, and from time to time he shook his head with an expression of anxious doubt.

The footsteps of a man in the room above interrupted his reflections; an ironical smile passed over his features as he muttered:

"He calls me a coward, the dastard that he is! For one hour he has been running about from room to room as though pursued by invisible spectres. How cunningly he has devised the whole affair in his own interest. Julio is to kill poor Geronimo! Julio is to bury the body in the cellar! Julio is to do all by himself! When we deal with false people, we must be on our guard. His intention is clear enough to me; he wishes to secure means, in case of necessity, of accusing me alone of the crime. He may threaten and rage as much as he pleases; he shall deal the mortal blow him self, or Geronimo shall leave this place unharmed."

Julio remained silent for a few moments, passed his hand across his brow, and said, looking at the chair:

"Think that in one hour that infernal seat will hold a corpse! The corpse of the most noble, affable gentleman I have ever known. May his good angel prevent him from visiting this cut-throat place! Signor Turchi will kill him; but I must aid him.[18] What will be the end of this bloody tragedy? The scaffold for the master, and the gallows for the servant. This is the consequence of my disorderly life. Had I not gone, in a moment of intoxication, and without knowing it, to the place where Judge Voltai was assassinated, I would not have been obliged to fly from my country, and Signor Turchi would not have it in his power to force me to become his accomplice in a frightful crime. The old cure of Porto-Fino said truly, that 'Sin is a labyrinth; if once we enter, we loose the thread which enables us to return to virtue.' Ah! would I were with my mother in Italy. Useless wish. It is too late; I am banished from my country, and a price set on my head."

He reflected for a few moments, then, with a gesture of impatience, he resumed:

"Come, come; of what good are all such thoughts? I am in his power, and I must yield to necessity; but once let the blow be struck, once let him commit a crime of which I can produce the proofs, then I will be master, and in my turn I will cry in his ears: 'Simon Turchi, fear the bailiff and the executioner!' At the present moment I am powerless; if I took any means to prevent the attempt, he might destroy all evidence of his criminal design, and deliver me up to the authorities of Lucca. I would be taken into Italy and broken on the wheel, in the very place where my poor old mother lives. I have always been a cause of sorrow to her; at least I will spare her this last disgrace. But the signor is coming down. He will reiterate his entreaties to me to strike the fatal blow; but I will not have the blood of this innocent gentleman on me."

Simon Turchi was approaching. His face was very pale, but the scar which furrowed his cheek was of a more ashy hue. He did not tremble, but he walked precipitately, and he clasped his hands convulsively, like a man whose impatience can brook no delay.

He noticed that his servant was in deep thought, his head bowed upon his chest, and it was only on his near approach that Julio suddenly roused from his preoccupation. He entered the room and said:

"Julio, the hour is nigh. Of what are you thinking? Are you afraid?"

"Afraid?" replied Julio, with a light laugh; "why should I be afraid?"

"True, true," murmured Simon, "since I alone shall shed his blood."

"But," continued Julio, "if I have no cause for personal fear, would not love for my master fill me with painful thoughts? Signor, you are playing for dangerous stakes."

"Who will know what has taken place here?"

"Who? Is there not an eye above which sees all? And whilst here, in the deepest secrecy, you immolate a human being to your thirst for vengeance, will not God hear the cry of agony of the Signor Geronimo?"

Julio saw, with a secret joy, that his words made his master tremble, although he tried to dissemble his feelings under an assumed insensibility.

"What a good joke!" replied Simon; "Pietro Mostajo talking of God! My precautions are too well taken; when the cellar will be the depository of the secret, there will be none to tell it."

"Do you think so, signor? When has such a murder ever remained concealed? It is not surprising that I bowed my head in thought. In imagination I saw such terrible things that I dare not tell them to you. Tears still fill my eyes at the thought."

"What did you see?" asked Turchi, with increasing anxiety.

"What did I see? The bailiff and his attendants. They bound a man's hand's behind his back; they dragged him through the streets like an odious criminal; the people cast filth and dirt upon the prisoner, and cried out, 'Murderer!' What did I see? A scaffold, and on this scaffold an executioner and one condemned to death; then a sword glittered in the sunlight, it fell, a stream of blood flowed, and a head rolled in the dust."

The servant stopped intentionally; but his master convulsively caught his arm, and said in a hoarse voice:

"What then? What then?"

"And then the crowd applauded and poured out maledictions upon the name."

"Whose name?"

"Yours, signor?"

Simon Turchi was so overpowered by the picture thus presented of his probable end, that he uttered a cry of terror and sprang back, trembling. He cast down his eyes for a moment in silence.

Julio contemplated the signor, thus overpowered by emotion, with a derisive smile. He had not called up this vivid scene solely as a means to induce his master to renounce his perilous enterprise; his motive was also to terrify him and to revenge himself for the violence he had been forced to endure from him.

The impression made upon Simon Turchi by this highly-wrought prediction did not last long. He raised his head, and said, in a contemptuous manner:

"Base hypocrite; it is your own fear which excites your imagination to see such things. The most courageous man would become cowardly with the cowardly. It is unfortunate for me that I need you, otherwise I would soon rid myself of your presence. But I, at least, will not recoil from the undertaking. Speak; tell me how far I may depend upon you. The clock will soon strike, and there is no time for hesitation."

"We will see which of us will the more coolly perform his part of the task. You are mistaken, signor; fear does not disturb me. Sympathy for you suggested the train of thought, and I considered it my duty to place before your eyes once more the abyss into which you might fall."

"Be silent; it is too late," exclaimed Simon Turchi, beside himself with rage. "Fool, do you desire my ruin—my eternal dishonor? Shall I let my enemy live? Shall I let him—him the husband of Mary Van de Werve—look down upon me from the height of his grandeur and felicity? No, no. I myself will be, must be, happy, rich, prosperous; and even should all escape my grasp; should the scaffold be my lot, the rage of vengeance which lacerates my heart must be satisfied.... Nothing, nothing, can restrain me; and, Julio, were you an obstacle in my path, I would pass over your dead body to strike a fatal blow at him who has poisoned my life. Do not attempt to thwart me, or I will crush you where you stand."

At these words Simon Turchi placed his hand on the hilt of his sword; his face was scarlet, his lips trembled, and his eyes flashed.

This threat did not disturb Julio, probably because he thought his master could not execute it. An ironical smile played upon his lips; he stepped back one or two paces, drew his knife, and said, mockingly:

"It would be strange, signor, if Geronimo should find us engaged in a combat. It might save his life."

"What! would you dare?"

"Why not? Do you think Julio would permit himself to be led like a sheep to the slaughter?"

"Listen! Ho comes!" exclaimed Simon Turchi, starting with terror.

The repeated strokes of the knocker resounded through the court-yard where the little door gave entrance into the garden.

"Julio, I ask you again," said Turchi, anxiously, "what reliance I may place upon you?"

"I will do what I have promised—neither more nor less."

"Then go open the door. Be guarded in your words, and show no disquietude. Bring him to this room; tell him that I am engaged with the foreign merchant; if he does not sit down at once, watch a favorable moment to lead him to the arm-chair. Then call me and I will do the rest."

"You, then, are determined to make me entice the Signor Geronimo to sit down in the arm-chair?"

Turchi replied in a threatening voice and with flashing eyes:

"Pietro Mostajo, remember the Superintendent of Lucca."

Julio left the building, went to the garden-gate and opened it.

"Benvenuto, Signor Geronimo," he said, "what good luck brings you here on a visit to my master? It is a long time since we have seen you."

"It is indeed a long time," replied the young noble with a genial smile, as he walked towards the house. "But the place looks so wild and uncared for. Did not the Signor Turchi speak of having the garden put in order?"

"Yes; but for some time my master has been very melancholy, and nothing seems to give him pleasure."

"I know it, Julio; but things will be better for him now."

"Would that your words were true, signor!"

"What a heavy sigh, Julio. You excite my fears. Is your master ill?"

The servant felt the importance of self-control, if he would not arouse the gentleman's suspicions. He therefore said, in a careless manner:

"Nothing is the matter, signor. My master is very well, and to-day is in a good humor. Ever since I saw Bufferio's sword lifted against you, I have suffered from an occasional sudden palpitation of the heart. I find relief only in a deep sigh."

As they thus talked together, he conducted Geronimo to the room containing the large arm-chair.

"Signor Geronimo," he said, "my master is up-stairs. I will inform him of your arrival. Please be seated."

Julio left the room; but instead of ascending the staircase, he hid himself behind a door and listened attentively to hear the clasping of the springs of the chair.

After having waited in vain, for a long time, he returned to the room, and said to the gentleman:

"Signor, my master begs you to excuse him for a while. He is engaged transacting some business with the merchant of whom he spoke to you yesterday. They are preparing a writing for you. Have the kindness to wait a few moments."

He now thought that Geronimo would, of his own accord, take the arm-chair, and with a beating heart he observed his movements. But he was disappointed, for the young cavalier stood at the window, gazing thoughtfully into the garden.

Although Julio knew with what mistrust and impatience his master was counting each passing moment, he said to Geronimo, with assumed indifference:

"It is at least half a mile from the Dominican Convent to this place, and you must be fatigued after your walk. Will you not rest in this arm-chair, signor?"

"No, I thank you. I am not in the least fatigued. I love to look at those beautiful trees clothed in their fresh May verdure."

An involuntary movement of impatience escaped the servant.

"You need not remain here on my account, Julio," said Geronimo. "Go to your work; I will stay alone."

"I have no urgent occupation, signor. If I still remain, contrary to your wish, it is to ask you a question; and yet I fear that you will be displeased at my boldness."

"Not at all, Julio. Can I render you any service? It will give me pleasure to show my gratitude for the courage with which you defended me when I was attacked by the ruffians."

"I had no reference to that. I heard you were about to marry the beautiful Miss Van de Werve. The news rejoiced me; but may your humble servant make free to ask you if it be true?"

The name of his betrothed flushed his cheek with joy, and he answered, with a smile:

"Yes, Julio, it is true."

"How blessed you are, signor!"

"Yes, Julio, God has bestowed upon me the greatest earthly blessing, for which I shall eternally thank him. On the solemn day of our nuptials you will have cause to rejoice."

"I, signor?"

"Yes, you, Julio. Miss Van de Werve wishes to recompense you herself for the assistance you gave me against Bufferio and his comrades. The day of my marriage you will receive a new cloak, a new doublet, new small-clothes of fine cloth and silk, such as a servant has never worn."

Julio, touched by this proof of kindness, stammered his thanks indistinctly. He heard the young man speaking to him and telling him how richly he deserved such a present, but he paid no attention to the words; he was endeavoring to bring himself to the degree of audacity requisite to fulfil his master's orders. Geronimo stood immediately in front of the arm-chair.

With bitter repugnance, but incited by the fear that no more favorable opportunity would present itself, he approached Geronimo as though to express his thanks anew. With one bound he sprang upon him, placed a hand on either shoulder, and pushed him forcibly into the chair.[19]

The seat of the deceptive piece of furniture sank down; from the arms started two powerful springs, which caught the young man around the waist, and held him so tightly against the back of the chair that it was impossible for him to move.

"Julio, Julio, what horrible jest is this?" he exclaimed. "Is it a trap? Do you act by your master's orders?"

But the servant, without saying a word in reply, left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Tell me, Julio," asked Turchi, descending the staircase to meet his servant, "is he caught?"

"The chair has done its work," replied Julio; "go do yours. Lose no time; he might give an alarm which would betray us. The fear of death gives superhuman strength to a man's lungs. Signor, it seems to me that my head is not safe on my shoulders. How does yours feel?"

But Simon Turchi heeded not this jest. He muttered a few indistinct words, drew his sword, and rushed down the steps to wreak his vengeance on the unfortunate Geronimo.

The servant remained where his master left him, listened to his footsteps until he heard the door of the fatal room open and then close again.

At first no sound reached his ear, but soon he heard Geronimo calling for help, and his master mocking and menacing him; at least he judged this by the tones of their voices, for he was too far off to distinguish the words. Urged by feeling rather than curiosity, he descended the staircase, and listened at the door of the room in which so horrible a crime was about to be committed.

He heard Geronimo say, in an earnest, pleading tone:

"Dear Simon, your mind is deranged. You, my friend, kill me! It is impossible. Put down that dagger; at least let me not die without confession. If it be the ten thousand crowns exasperating you, I make you a present of them; tear up in my presence the acknowledgment of the debt, and I will never speak to you of it again."

"Mary, Mary Van de Werve!" howled Simon Turchi, with biting sarcasm.

"I will renounce her hand and leave for Italy, and never again will I see a country so fatal to me, to her, to all that I love."

"It is too late—too late. You must die!"

"No, no, Simon; in pity to yourself do not imbue your hands in my innocent blood. God sees us; your conscience will torture you; never again will there be peace for you on earth, and your poor soul will be miserable for all eternity. No, Simon, do not kill me."

Then came a frightful cry, as though he were crushed, and Julio heard a sound which seemed like that of a dagger against metal.

This blow, however—if it were a blow—was not mortal, for Geronimo raised his voice with the strength of despair, and cried out:

"Help! help! Simon, let me live! Mercy! mercy!"

Then a mournful groan escaped his lips, while, as his voice died away, h prayed:

"My God, my God, forgive him! I am dying."

On hearing the conclusion of this horrible tragedy, Julio retired to the foot of the staircase. He had hardly reached it, when the door of the room opened, and his master appeared.

Disfigured as Simon Turchi's countenance had been by the thirst for revenge, crime made it still more frightful. The signor could hardly have been recognized. His hair stood upright; his eyes rolled in their sockets; a hard, hoarse sound escaped his lips; blood dripped from his hands.

He ran by his servant without speaking to him, ascended the staircase, and having reached his room he threw himself panting upon a chair.

Julio, who had followed him, placed himself before him, and asked:

"Well, signor, is the deed accomplished?"

"It is; let me take breath," said Turchi, breathing heavily.

After waiting a few moments, Julio resumed:

"Did he offer any resistance, that you are so fatigued, signor?"

"Resistance? No; but when I attempted the first time to pierce him to the heart, the blade of my dagger struck against metal, and grated harshly. He wears a breastplate, Julio. Could he have suspected my intentions?"

Turchi's dagger had evidently struck the amulet which the young man always wore around his neck.

"Possibly," replied Julio, "Geronimo may wear some guard on his breast; it is the place against which a poignard is always aimed, and no one is secure in the darkness of night from the assault of an enemy or an assassin; but what is there in this circumstance to move you so deeply?"

"So much blood spouted from the wound. The sight of the blood, together with Geronimo's piteous cries, struck me with anguish and horror. I tottered so that I feared I would fall before completing the work; but happily I gained the strength to finish what I had commenced. I pierced his throat with my poignard, and hushed his voice forever."

"And is he really dead?"

"Not a drop of blood is left in his veins."

Simon Turchi had recovered from his excessive emotion. He arose and said:

"I must wash the blood from my hands, and efface the least spot that might betray me. Then I must go on Change and transact some business with people who will remember to have seen me there at that time. Later, I will call on Mr. Van de Werve. I must be seen in different places and speak with many people. Go down, Julio, and drag the corpse to the cellar. Then clear away every sign of blood. I need not tell you that your life, as well as mine, depends upon the care with which you perform this task."

"I know it, signor. The blow has been struck, and I am not a man to neglect the precautions necessary to escape the gallows, if I can."

"I have accomplished my task, Julio; go do yours."

"Drag the corpse, by myself, into the cellar? No, no, signor; you must help me."

"I have not the time, Julio. I must go immediately to the city."

"It is of no consequence to me. I will not remain alone in this cut-throat place."

"And what if I ordered you to do so?" exclaimed Turchi, trembling with anger.

"You would do so in vain, signor. You will work with me until all is done."

"Pietro Mostajo, do you dare to defy me, and that too at the very moment when the blood is boiling in my veins? Do as I command, or before night the authorities of Lucca shall know who you are."

"Ah!" said Julio, with a scornful laugh, "Pietro Mostajo and the authorities of Lucca have lost their power over me. As long as I had no proofs of crime against you, I had cause to fear you; but would you dare now to reveal my real name, now that by one word I can deliver you into the hands of the executioner? Hereafter, signor, you will speak to me neither so harshly nor so haughtily. In this affair there is neither master nor servant. We are two men, guilty of the same crime. Draw your dagger, if you choose. Vain threat! Can you do without me?"

Simon Turchi grit his teeth in impotent rage; but soon recovering himself, he took his servant's hand, and said beseechingly:

"You are right, Julio; we are rather two friends than master and servant. Let me then, as friend and companion, implore a favor at your hands. You must see that it is important for me to go without delay to the factory to change my dress. For the safety of both of us I ought to leave immediately for the city, in order to prevent suspicion. Geronimo is not heavy; you can, without difficulty, drag him down stairs."

The servant shook his head, but was evidently hesitating.

"Come, Julio; I beg, I entreat you to do what the safety of both of us requires. You still hesitate, Julio? I will reward you generously. This very evening I will give you two crowns if you tell me you have done faithfully and carefully what I have requested."

"Will you be here, signor, when I return from the cellar?"

"I don't know, Julio; as soon as I have washed off the blood, I shall leave. Make haste, and possibly you may find me here. In all events I will wait for you this evening at the factory, and besides the two crowns, I will give you a whole bottle of Malmsey."

"Agreed," said Julio; "I will do my best to please you."

He descended the staircase, and when he reached the room where the horrible murder had been committed, he stood for a moment with his arms folded. He turned pale and shook his head compassionately.

The poor Geronimo was extended in the chair, with his eyes closed. His head had fallen on the arm of the chair; his two hands were joined, as if in prayer for his cruel murderer. His garments were saturated with blood, and his feet rested in a pool of blood. There was a large wound in his neck and another in his breast; his face was not in the least stained, and although it was covered by the pallor of death, his countenance wore a sweet, tranquil expression, as though he had gently fallen asleep.

"Poor Signor Geronimo!" said Julio, sighing heavily. "Beauty! generosity! wealth! all fallen under the blade of a wretch! What is man's life? He, however, will in heaven, with God, be indemnified for his horrible death. And we? But the present is not the time for reflections and lamentations; my pity will not restore this corpse to life. I must now close my eyes to the future, and fulfil my horrible task."

He knelt behind the chair, passed his arm under it, and turned a screw. The springs opened and loosed their hold upon the inanimate body.

Julio held it by the arms and dragged it through the hall until he reached a staircase conducting to a cellar. There he left the corpse, entered an adjoining room, and returned with a lamp. Holding the light in his hand, he descended until he reached a subterranean passage. Very deep under the ground, and at the end of this passage, was a kind of vaulted cellar closed by a heavy door. Julio opened the door, and by the light of the lamp examined a grave which had been dug in one corner of the cellar, and on the sides of which lay the earth which had been excavated.[20]

After a rapid survey, he placed the lamp outside the door against the wall of the passage, and returned for the dead body.

When he had carried his burden as far as the subterranean passage, he panted for breath and seemed overcome by fatigue. He, however, exerted all his strength in order to finish as soon as possible his painful task, and dragged the corpse into the cellar. There he let it fall upon the side of the grave already prepared for its reception. After resting a few moments, he was about to cast it into the grave and cover it with earth, but he desisted, saying:

"Bah! the poor young man will not run away. Perhaps Signor Turchi has not yet left. At any rate, I will first wash away the blood stains, and then I will return to bury the body."

He took the lamp and left the cellar, without closing the door.

On reaching the room he found that his master had gone.

The solitude disquieted him, particularly as it was now nearly dark, and he could hardly hope to finish before night cleaning the blood-stained floors and staircase.

He appeared, however, to submit to necessity, and prepared for his work by getting water and brushes.

The evening was far advanced, and still Julio was occupied in scouring. How it happened he could not understand, but new spots of blood were continually appearing, even in places that he had washed several times. This was particularly the case in the room where the murder had been committed. Do what he would, he could not efface the marks of blood. The sweat poured down his cheeks and he vented his rage in angry words against his master.

It may have been fatigue, or perhaps the deepening shades of night rendered his nervous system sensitive to the slightest impression; for at the least sound of the wind through the leaves of the trees, at the least grating of the weathercock as it turned on its pivot, he stopped his work and looked anxiously around him.

He succeeded, however, in stifling these emotions, and continued his labor on the fatal spot where the chair had stood.

Finally he arose, took the lamp, examined attentively the whole floor, and said, with a kind of satisfaction:

"At last I have finished! He who could discover a spot there could see through a stone. My arms are almost broken; I can scarcely straighten myself. Now for my last task! a grave is soon filled; in a half hour I shall be far from this accursed place."

Saying these words, he left the room, and taking the lamp descended again the staircase leading to the cellar.

When he had reached the middle of the subterranean passage, he suddenly stopped, turned pale from terror, and looked tremblingly around him. He thought he heard something, an unusual, mysterious sound, faint but distinct.

Having listened for some time, he concluded that his imagination had deceived him. Summoning up all his resolution, he walked on towards the cellar, and through the open, door he saw the corpse of Geronimo lying as he had left it.

As he was approaching the cellar, full of anxiety and slackening his pace, suddenly a human voice fell upon his ear. There was articulate sound, no spoken word, but only a hollow groan.

Julio, in an agony of terror, dropped the lamp. The oil extinguished the flame, and thus left in total darkness he fled from the cellar as rapidly as he could by groping along the wall. His heart beat violently, and his limbs tottered under him.

He recovered himself a little only after attaining a distant apartment and lighting a lamp. Here he remained a long time seated and buried in thought; various expressions of fear, anger, and even raillery flitted across his face.

At last he arose, drew a knife from its scabbard, and trying its sharpness, murmured:

"I cannot bury him alive! Therefore I am forced to deal the death-blow! No, no, I will not; I have even braved the vengeance of my perfidious master in order not to imbue my hands in his blood, and I will not now be guilty of it. But what can I do? I have no other alternative. I must either bury him alive or kill him! And I cannot stay here all night."

He took up the lamp and slowly and silently he cautiously descended the stairs leading to the cellar; after some hesitation he entered; Geronimo's body still lay in the position he left it.

Julio had taken this time a much larger lamp, and it lighted the whole cellar; he heard no sound from the breast of the unfortunate victim, although he saw plainly that life was not extinct, for there was a slight heaving of the breast.

After listening a moment, Julio muttered, with a kind of joy:

"No additional cruelty is necessary. He is in his death-agony, and he will soon die. I will shut the door and finish my work to-morrow. But my master will ask if all is done? He need know nothing of this circumstance. But I long to get away; and may the vengeance of God fall upon this spot to-night, and blot out all memento of it!"

Shortly after he left the garden, and with rapid strides threaded the obscure streets to rejoin his master, and also to cast off his blood-stained garments.



CHAPTER VII.

GRIEF AT GEROME'S ABSENCE—TURCHI'S HYPOCRISY.

Mary Van De Werve was in her own apartment, kneeling before a silver crucifix; she seemed bowed down by a weight of woe. Her head rested upon her clasped hands. She had been weeping bitterly; for there were traces of tears upon the prie-Dieu.

Had a stranger surprised the young girl in this attitude, he might have thought that sleep had overpowered her during prayer; but the gasping breath and heaving chest sufficiently attested that she had not sunk in sleep, but that she was plunged in an expressible sorrow.

Behind her was seated an old woman, her duenna, with a rosary in her hand. She gazed upon the young girl with deep compassion; from time to time she shook her head, and wiped away the tears which dimmed her eyes whenever Mary's sighs became heavier.

For some time the silence was unbroken; Mary even appeared somewhat calmer, when suddenly, influenced by some peculiarly painful thought, she extended her arms to heaven and cried out;

"My God and my Saviour! through thy precious blood spare his life! Have mercy on him! reject not the prayer of my broken heart!"

Again her head fell on her hands, as if this burning petition had exhausted her strength. The duenna approached her, took her arm, endeavored to lift her, and said, authoritatively:

"My lady, you must rise and cease your prayer. God may be displeased with you for thus deliberately endangering your health. Come, obey me."

Mary arose without reply, and took the seat offered her by the duenna. She was very pale, and her eyes were swollen from weeping.

The duenna looked upon her with an eye of pity; she took her hand, and said, gently:

"Mary, my child, you cannot continue this; such an excess of sorrow would shorten your days. And what pain to the poor Geronimo on his return, to find you condemned to a short and suffering life! Through love for him, I beg you to control yourself."

"On his return?" repeated Mary, raising her tearful eyes to heaven.

"Why not?" replied the duenna. "Why despair before being certain of the evil you dread? More extraordinary things have happened."

"Already five days—five centuries of suspense and fear! Ah! Petronilla, what a frightful night I passed! I saw Geronimo extended on the ground, the pallor of death on his face, a large wound was in his breast, and his lifeless eyes were fixed on me as if with his last breath he had bade me adieu."

"These are illusions caused by grief, Mary."

"More than twenty times I saw him thus; in vain I strove to shut out the horrible vision; day alone brought me relief."

The duenna took her hand, and said, tenderly:

"You are wrong, Mary, to cherish your grief in this manner. Your dreams at night were but the reflection of your thoughts by day. I, too, saw Geronimo in sleep more than once."

"You, too, Petronilla, you saw Geronimo?" exclaimed the young girl, with emotion, as though she feared the confirmation of her own terrific dream.

"Why not, Mary; do I think of him less than you?"

"You saw him dying, did you not?"

"On the contrary, I saw him return joyfully and cast himself into the arms of his uncle and embrace your father. And you, my child, I saw you kneeling on this same prie-Dieu, thanking God that your dreams were false and deceiving."

Mary smiled as she listened to the duenna's consoling words, but scarcely had Petronilla ceased speaking than she suspected the artifice.

"You deceive me through friendship and compassion," she said, sadly. "I am grateful to you, my good Petronilla; but tell me to what cause you can attribute Geronimo's absence. Come, call upon your imagination; find a possible, probable explanation."