Disconcerted by this direct interrogation, the duenna shook her head.

"There is no plausible reason," said Mary.

The old Petronilla, in the greatest embarrassment, stammered out a few words as to an unexpected journey, secrets he might be unable to divulge; she even suggested that his friends might have prevailed upon him to join in a party of pleasure; but all these were such vague suppositions that Mary plainly saw in them an acknowledgment that she could find no reasonable explanation of Geronimo's absence.

Mary's tears flowed faster.

"Oh, Petronilla!" she exclaimed, in heart-rending tones; "the light of my life is forever extinguished. Geronimo, so young, so good, so noble, so gifted, the unfortunate victim of a mysterious murderer! Frightful thought! and no room for hope! Mercy, my God, mercy! My heart is breaking; never more will I see him in this world."

And uttering a cry of anguish, she covered her face with her hands.

"I acknowledge, Mary," said the duenna, dejectedly, "that Geronimo's absence is inexplicable; but why look on the worst side and accept it as truth? You know that during the last four days every possible effort has been made to discover Geronimo. Mr. Van Schoonhoven, the bailiff, has pledged his honor to find him dead, or alive."

Mary wept in silence, and heeded not the words of the duenna.

"Perhaps, my child," the old woman resumed, "this very day the doubt which has caused you so much suffering for five days may be cleared up. Do not close your heart against all hope. I remember that once an individual was sought for weeks, and found alive when there seemed almost a certainty of his death. The bailiff was speaking of it this morning to your father, and I recollect having heard my parents relate it. It happened to a banker, Liefmans, who was considered very wealthy."

The young girl regarded the duenna with an air of doubt.

"They found him after several weeks of absence? Had he gone on a journey without giving notice to any one?"

"No; he was discovered in the cellar of a house in the little by-street of Sureau. Robbers had laid in wait for him in the darkness of night, and cast him bound into a subterranean cave, in order to obtain a heavy ransom. The agents of the bailiff discovered him and liberated him unharmed. If God has so decreed, why may not the same have happened to the Signor Geronimo? You are silent, Mary. You cannot deny that a similar train of circumstances may have been the cause of his disappearance. Is it not so? but you yield to despair, and even in the act of begging consolation from Almighty God, you reject obstinately every motive of consolation."

"Pity me, dear Petronilla," answered the young girl; "your kind words are a solace to me, but I dare not open my heart to the whisperings of hope. If I accepted your explanations, and afterwards heard of Geronimo's death, it would be double suffering to me. No, no, rather let me encourage the feeling that there is no room for hope."

"It is impossible to make any impression upon her," said the duenna, in a disappointed manner, and as if she were resolved to cease her efforts and to abandon the young girl to her grief.

The silence was broken by the sound of voices in the hall.

"I hear the voice of the Signor Deodati," said the duenna; "perhaps he brings tidings."

Mary rose quickly to descend; but Petronilla wished to detain her, saying:

"My child, in pity to a sorrowing old man, restrain your grief. Control yourself, Mary, for yesterday each word you uttered pierced the heart of the poor Deodati like a dagger. It would be cruel and guilty in you to cause his tears to flow anew; at his age such affliction wears down the strength and shortens life."

"No, Petronilla, I will hide my feelings, and I will appear hopeful. I saw that the old man was overpowered by anxiety and trouble. Trust me, Petronilla, and let me go; I must know from the Signor Deodati if he has received any information."

The duenna accompanied the young girl to the door of the room where Mr. Van de Werve and Signor Deodati were conversing together, but she let her enter alone.

As soon as Mary's eye fell on the old man, and she read in his face the sorrow of his soul, she uttered a stifled cry of anguish. She cast her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder.

The Signor Deodati, deeply moved, seated her by his side, and said, with tender compassion:

"My poor Mary, we have no tidings yet of our Geronimo. Are we not unhappy? Why did not God recall me to himself ere this? Did I leave Italy and come hither to drink the bitter dregs in my chalice of life? Could I weep like you, Mary, I might find some relief, but old age has dried up my tears. Alas! alas! where is my poor Geronimo, the child whom God gave me, to close my eyes on the bed of death? I would give my fortune to save him, and the little that remains to me of life to know that he still lives."

Tears filled Mr. Van de Werve's eyes as he contemplated his daughter and the desolate old man; but he controlled his emotion, and said:

"Mary, I requested you to stay in your own apartment, because you cannot moderate the expression of your sorrow. You have disregarded my desire. I willingly pardon you, my child; but if you wish to remain longer with Signor Deodati, you must exercise some self-control; otherwise I shall send for your duenna to take you away."

He then added, in a more gentle manner:

"Now, Mary, I beg, I supplicate you, comprehend the duty devolving upon you. Be courageous, and do your best to console our unhappy friend."

With a heroic effort Mary raised her head, and although still weeping, said:

"You are right, father. We grieve as though there were no room for hope; but—but—"

So great was the violence she was doing herself that she could scarcely draw her breath; but conquering this emotion, she resumed:

"Ah! signor, we cannot know. God is so good, and Geronimo has so pure a heart!"

"God is indeed good, my child; but his designs are impenetrable. If I could only imagine some probable cause to explain my nephew's absence. But nothing—nothing!"

"The bailiff gave us, this morning, a reason for supposing that Geronimo may yet return to us unharmed."

"You speak of the banker Liefmans, do you not, father?"

"Yes, my child. He disappeared suddenly. A fortnight had passed in useless inquiry; his parents had the service for the dead offered for him, and he was found alive and well in a cellar, where some robbers had imprisoned him, in order by it to obtain a large sum of money."

"And the same may happen, to Geronimo!" said Mary, with a confidence she did not feel, in order to aid her father in his kind intentions.

Signor Deodati shook his head incredulously.

Mary took his hand tenderly, and said, cheerfully:

"We must hope, signor. Perhaps the Lord in his mercy will grant that our fears may not be realized. Would we not for the remainder of our lives offer our grateful prayers to heaven?"

"Yes, yes; during our whole lives. And I would go in my old age to Our Lady of Loretto to express my boundless gratitude to the Madonna. But suppose he has fallen under the assassin's sword?"

Mary shuddered at the thought, but she interrupted the old man.

"Signor, Geronimo possessed an amulet which had rested on the tomb of our Lord. He was convinced that it would preserve him from a violent death, and he always wore it around his neck."

"I know the circumstances under which the amulet was given him," replied Deodati. "I myself had some faith in this talisman, because it was the recompense of a good action; but we have no proof that the woman who gave it to Geronimo had any certain knowledge of its efficacy. However, Mary, we will still hope. Your sweet voice has mitigated my sorrow. May my poor nephew be restored to me. The happiness I expected in my old age may yet be a reality. You, Mary,—pure image of piety, goodness, and love,—you will be my child! And when old Deodati will be called to leave this world, he will see you and Geronimo by his dying bed, like two angels, pointing out to his expiring goal the path to heaven. Oh! no, no; this would be too much happiness. My mind wanders. And yet, Mary, let us hope!"

The young girl was deeply moved by the picture of that happiness which she had thought was lost to her forever. Her eyes were suffused with tears; her limbs trembled, and had not a stern look from her father reminded her of her duty, her oppressed heart would have found relief in sobs.

Mr. Van de Werve thought it better to change the conversation, and said to Deodati:

"Let us not forget, signor, that we are men, and that it becomes us to bear up courageously under a painful suspense, and in a manner to which a young girl might be unequal. Have you heard nothing since the morning? Have you not seen Signor Turchi?"

"I spoke to Signor Turchi about an hour before 'Change," said the old gentleman, more calmly. "The good Turchi! he seemed even more dejected than we. Within the last five days, he has lost so much flesh that one would scarcely recognize him. He does not give himself a moment's repose. From morning until night he is running about from place to place, seeking Geronimo as though he were a beloved brother."

"Truly," said Mary, "his is a generous heart. Poor Simon! I have sometimes been unjust to him; but it is in affliction that we learn who are our true friends. For the rest of my life I will respect and esteem him."

"He will meet me here, presently," replied Deodati. "He may have some particular communication to make to me, for he seemed to desire a private conversation. The arrival of some merchants of his acquaintance prevented him from speaking to me. I almost quarrelled with Signor Turchi."

"Quarrelled!" said Mr. Van de Werve, in astonishment.

"Yes; but it was to his praise, at least. He told me that it was his intention to offer a large reward to the first person who would bring certain tidings of Geronimo."

"How grateful I am for his generous friendship!" said Mary.

"Of course," continued the old man, "I would not permit it. Whilst thanking him for his kindness, I told him that I would offer the reward myself. I left Signor Turchi in company with the merchants, and went to the town-hall for the purpose; but when I arrived there, I found a decree of the burgomaster already issued, promising three hundred florins for any information of Geronimo.[21] I spoke with the bailiff at noon. He told me that, notwithstanding the most active search, no trace had yet been discovered of Bufferio's wife, nor of his companions. All of them must have left the country immediately after the ruffian's death. But this afternoon the bailiff expects to hear the result of several important researches ordered by him this morning. If he receives any communication of consequence he will come himself to impart it to us. I hear the clock strike five. Signor Turchi will soon be here."

During this explanation Mary remained immovable—her eyes cast down. She had probably heard only confusedly what had just been said, for her thoughts were evidently far away.

It was only when the servant threw open the door and announced Signor Turchi that the young girl, aroused from her reverie, rose hastily and went eagerly to meet him, as though she expected him to be the bearer of important news.

Mr. Van de Werve and Deodati also met him at the door; Mary involuntarily took both his hands in hers, and all three regarded him inquiringly.

"Alas! my friends, I know nothing," said Turchi, in a voice which seemed but the echo of a bruised and broken heart. "All my efforts have proved unsuccessful. I have vowed before God to spare no expense or trouble in order to discover what has become of my unfortunate friend; but so far impenetrable darkness covers the terrible secret. What shall we do? Let us hope that the bailiff and his officers may be more fortunate than myself, who have only my anxiety and affection to guide me."

The words of Simon Turchi effaced the last lingering hope from Mary's heart, and she seated herself, exhausted from previous emotion.

Turchi drew a chair beside her, regarded her with an expression of profound compassion, and said:

"My poor Mary, your affliction is intense! I know by my own sorrow how your loving heart is suffering from this terrible suspense!"

The young girl lifted her eyes to his face, and she saw the tears running down his cheeks. Then she began to weep bitterly, and sobbing, she said:

"Thanks, thanks, Simon! I will beg Almighty God to recompense your affection and generosity."

Simon's countenance at this moment presented a singular appearance, from the remarkable contrast between the pallor of his cheeks and the deep scarlet which marked the margin of the scar on his face. The hypocrite could shed tears at pleasure and assume an expression of extreme sorrow, but the scar was not submissive to his will, and in spite of him its deepening red betrayed the wicked joy of his heart at the gentle and affectionate words of the young girl.

These words encouraged him to hope that he might fully attain the prize for which he strove. He had, it is true, taken from his murdered friend the proof of the debt of ten thousand crowns; true he had, as he supposed, buried all evidence of his crime in the subterranean vault; but this did not satisfy him. In order to feel that he had received the price of the frightful assassination, in order to remain rich, powerful, and honored, he required the hand of the beautiful Mary Van de Werve. He well knew that a long time must elapse before the consummation of his hopes; still, from the very day that he had committed the murder, he commenced to lay his schemes, weigh his words, and so direct his plans that sooner or later he would certainly take Geronimo's place in Mary's heart. He felt secure of the consent of the young girl's father. It was on this account that he feigned excessive sorrow, and gazed upon Mary with tearful eyes, as though the sight of her grief pierced him to the heart.

He took Mary's hands in his, and said:

"Do not yield, to despair, Mary; all hope is not lost. Last night a thought—a strange thought—occurred to my mind. And if I be correct, there are still well-founded reasons for expecting Geronimo's return."

"Speak, Simon," said Mary, anxiously. "Tell us this thought."

Signor Turchi cast down his eyes in feigned embarrassment.

"Impossible, Mary; it is a secret which I have no right to divulge."

"Alas! is even this consolation refused me?" she exclaimed, despairingly.

"This is unkind, Simon," said Mr. Van de Werve. "Why do you cheer us up and awaken our curiosity only to cast us down by your silence? Give no names; but at least give us some idea of the reasons we have for hope."

Simon Turchi shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, signor," said Deodati, reproachfully, "you are ungenerous. This morning before 'Change you were about to confide the secret to me, when you were interrupted by the approach of friends. Tell it to me now."

Simon glanced expressively at Mary, as if to convey the idea that her presence prevented him from complying with the old man's request.

"Mary," said Mr. Van de Werve, "I beg you to go to your room. These varying emotions are more than you can bear; if I learn anything of interest, I will, my child, communicate it to you at once."

The young girl rose without reply, but she glanced reproachfully at Simon Turchi.

"Do not blame me, Mary," he said; "I am deeply grieved to cause you pain; only rest assured that what I do is caused by affection for Geronimo and yourself."

Without noticing this excuse the young girl obeyed her father, and slowly left the room.

"Now," said Mr. Van de Werve, "what is the secret you wish to impart to us?"

"I am greatly embarrassed," replied Simon Turchi, shaking his head doubtfully; "my intention was to speak only to Signor Deodati of the affair; perhaps it would be indiscreet in me to reveal to you also, Mr. Van de Werve, a secret which, under different circumstances—"

"For the love of God, abandon these useless evasions!" said Signor Deodati, roused to a high pitch of excitement by his impatience. "Why should not Mr. Van de Werve know that which, in your opinion, would give us a clue to my nephew?"

"Since I am forced to speak," said Turchi, with a sigh, "approach and listen."

As soon as Deodati and Mr. Van de Werve had drawn their chairs nearer to him, Simon said in an undertone, as if he feared his words might be overheard:

"Have you not remarked, Mr. Van de Werve, that for some time past Geronimo has been disturbed and anxious; that even in the midst of cheerful conversation he appeared absent-minded; in a word, that some great trouble seemed weighing upon him?"

"I have noticed it," said Mr. Van de Werve.

"And you, Signor Deodati?"

"I have also remarked it. But what do you infer from this?"

"About a month ago I interrogated Geronimo as to the cause of his melancholy, and he informed me in confused, vague terms, that he had lost a considerable sum at play_."

"At play!" exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve, overpowered by astonishment.

"Was Geronimo a gambler?" exclaimed Deodati, with ill-suppressed indignation.

"It is the custom at Antwerp to play for money, and often for considerable sums of money," continued Simon Turchi. "I never remarked that my friend Geronimo had a passion for play. However that may be, I could never discover to whom he had lost the amount, nor would he tell me how much it was. His melancholy and agitation were caused by the circumstance I have just mentioned. He was tortured by the certainty that his uncle would discover, upon examination, the loss of a large amount, which was not accounted for on the books. I proposed to advance him the deficit, but he absolutely refused, because he preferred to meet his uncle's just anger rather than deceive him."

This revelation was stunning to the old Deodati. Nothing could have more keenly wounded the honorable, high-toned nobleman than the thought that Geronimo had been so dishonest and ungrateful as to use the funds of the establishment in gambling.

Trembling with emotion, he asked:

"You say the sum is considerable. What is the amount?"

"I have no idea, signor. Perhaps you might discover it by an examination of the books."

There was a short silence. Mr. Van de Werve's eyes were fixed upon the ground. Signor Deodati passed his hand across his brow, and was absorbed in painful thoughts.

Simon watched for a few moments, with an inquisitive eye, the effect of this revelation upon his two companions, trying to penetrate their very souls. Then he said to Deodati:

"You look on the bad side of the affair, signor. If there were not a brighter, reverse side, I would have considered the confidence of my friend sacred, and guarded his secret until death. Up to this time we all feared, nay, considered it certain, that Geronimo had fallen under the assassin's steel. Now I begin to think that, in order to escape his uncle's anger, he has left the city and country."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve.

"Impossible?" repeated Turchi, "he would have gone ere this, had I not persuaded him that he would obtain his uncle's pardon. Even on the day of your arrival, Signor Deodati, when Geronimo met me in the dock-yard on the bank of the Scheldt, he begged me to inquire for an English vessel which would leave on that or the next day, and secretly to engage his passage on board. You may well know that I combated this foolish project, and I left him only when he promised me to abandon the idea."

"Could he so lightly sacrifice my daughter's love?" said Mr. Van de Werve. "Were his expressions of affection for her only hypocrisy? No, no; nothing can induce me to believe that."

"His love was real," replied Turchi, "and its very depth, perhaps, blinded his judgment. He thought that the discovery of his losses at the gaming-table would inevitably deprive him of all hope of Mary's hand. My poor friend! he wished to fly from the fate which threatened him, that he might not witness the affliction of his beloved uncle."

No one replied to Simon's remarks, and he said, with hypocritical surprise:

"How sad you both are! You should rather rejoice at my revelation. Is it not a happiness to think that Geronimo, although guilty of a fault, is still alive, and not to be forced to believe that he is forever lost to our affection by a frightful death?"

Old Deodati arose and said:

"My friends, I must leave you; my mind is troubled; I am ill. Besides, I wish to discover by the books the truth or falsity of Signor Turchi's statement. Do not attempt to detain me, I beg you. Adieu! May God guard you!"

Simon Turchi prepared to accompany the old man; but whilst they were speaking together the bailiff, Messire John Van Schoonhoven, suddenly entered, and without the formality of a salutation, he exclaimed:

"Gentlemen, I have news!"

Turchi trembled and turned pale; but as the unexpected announcement of the bailiff had startled the others, his emotion was not attributed to terror.

"For the love of God be calm, gentlemen, and do not anticipate too much. I do not know what has become of the unfortunate Geronimo, but I have just cause to hope that we will soon find him—at least we have a clue.' I have learned, beyond doubt, that on the day of his disappearance, about five o'clock in the evening, he was seen beyond the Square of Meir. A monk from the Dominican Convent, who knows him well, saluted him and noticed the direction he went. Acting upon this information, one of my most intelligent subordinates has been tracing him. A banker saw him pass through the quarter of the Jews. This is all I know at present, but these facts are sufficient to determine the direction of our researches, and may perhaps lead to a fortunate issue. By early dawn to-morrow I will collect all the agents at my disposal; I will divide them into small bands, and I will order them to search every house, cellar, and garden in a certain part of the city, and that in the most thorough manner, without leaving a spot unexamined.[22] I myself will superintend the work, and will visit in person each hand of workmen to see that my commands are properly executed."

Simon Turchi had covered his face with his hands, in order to conceal his terror.

Surprised by his emotion, the bailiff said:

"What have I said, Signor Turchi, to excite so much feeling?"

"Ah, you know not how much suffering you cause me," replied Simon. "I thought I was about to learn from your lips that my friend was safe, and what do you promise me if your search proves successful? Only his dead body!"

"It is true," said the bailiff. "It is no use to deceive you. My opinion is that he has been assassinated in some by-street near the hospital grounds, or in one of the dark alleys between the parishes of Saint George and Saint Andrew. But I am determined to discover the truth. Dead or alive, I will find him, even if it be necessary to tear up the pavements of all the cellars, and dig up all the gardens to the depth of ten feet. The whole city is in a state of excitement; the people complain of the authorities of Antwerp as though we were accomplices in the crime. This affair shall be brought to light, I pledge my honor and my name."

"I thank you for your zeal and solicitude," stammered Turchi. "May God direct your steps! How we will all bless you, if you restore Geronimo alive to us."[23]

"I have little hope, little hope, signor; but all things are possible," said the bailiff, shaking his head.

Deodati took his hand, and said:

"Messire Van Schoonhoven, I am most grateful to you. Excuse me for the remaining longer in your honorable company; but I am indisposed, and I must return home. May God protect you, signor."

"And are you going also, Signor Turchi?" asked the bailiff.

When Simon gave him to understand, by a glance of the eye, that he could not let the old man go alone, he took his hand affectionately, and said:

"I understand, signor; you are right. Adieu, until to-morrow."

Turchi offered his arm to Deodati, and supported his tottering steps. They took leave of Mr. Van de Werve, who accompanied them to the door, and admiring Simon Turchi's kindness, he followed them with his eyes as long as they were in sight.



CHAPTER VIII.

SIMON TURCHI TRIES TO CONCEAL HIS CRIME.

After having accompanied Deodati to his residence, Simon Turchi went to his own dwelling near the bridge De la Vigne.

He was greatly excited, either by extreme anxiety or by a feverish impatience; for he descended to the ground-floor, entered his office, pretended to be looking for some papers, went up stairs again, paced the room, opened the window, looked up and down the street, closed the window petulantly, and at last, stamping his foot, he angrily exclaimed:

"The miserable gamester! he is in some tavern drinking, gambling, amusing himself, while I am here on burning coals, almost overpowered by anxiety and terror! Julio, Julio, if I escape the fate which now threatens me, I will have my revenge for your ingratitude!"

Again he went to the window, and again he was disappointed. Thoroughly discouraged, he threw himself upon a chair, heaved a heavy sigh, and after a moment's silence exclaimed in accents of despair:

"Alas! alas! is it then true that my crime cannot remain concealed? Who was it, to my great misfortune, who sent the Dominican brother just to the spot to meet Geronimo, and thus furnished the bailiff with a clue to the murder? Who put the Jewish banker on his track, so that the constables might be led to my garden? Who suggested the idea to the bailiff to search the cellars? Was it chance? But chance is blind, and does not proceed with such precision to the fulfilment of a purpose. How frightful if God himself conducted justice! if the Supreme Judge, who cannot be deceived, has condemned me to an infamous death! How vain then all hope, all effort to escape!"

Overpowered by these reflections, Simon Turchi bowed his head upon his breast; his hands worked convulsively, and at intervals heart-rending sighs escaped him.

Confusedly arose before him a horrible vision: he saw the scaffold erected; he beheld the sword of the executioner glitter in the sunlight; he heard the shouts of the populace calling down the vengeance of heaven upon his guilty head and devoting his name to eternal infamy; he seemed to feel the mysterious stroke from the uplifted blade, for his frame shook violently, and he uttered a piercing cry of anguish.

He thrust his hand into his doublet, and drew from it slowly a small phial half filled with a yellow liquid, and held it before him with a shudder of disgust and horror.

"Poison, deadly poison!" he muttered. "He who has the courage to take a few drops will sleep a sweet sleep from which there is no awakening. And is this my only refuge from the ignominy of the scaffold? Instead of wealth and happiness, is a miserable death to be the price of my crime? No, no; I must chase away these horrible thoughts."

He replaced the phial in his doublet, and abandoned himself again to his dark reflections; but at last he conquered, in a measure, his dejection, and he said, less despairingly but still sorrowfully:

"And yet everything was going on so smoothly! I had recovered my note; the possession of the ten thousand crowns enabled me to conceal for the present the ruined condition of my affairs; Mary did not appear indifferent to me, and Geronimo being out of the way, I was certain of succeeding with her in the course of time. I would in that case become rich and powerful; her dowry would be sufficient to save me from poverty and a humiliating discovery. Alas! why do the people accuse the magistrates of want of zeal? Things more surprising than the disappearance of Geronimo have happened lately without any disturbance among the populace. It was the public feeling that forced the bailiff to make extraordinary efforts to discover what had become of him; it will be the cause of my destruction! Can there be a mysterious impulse to this unwonted excitement of the multitude? Vainly then would I struggle to escape! Would it not be God himself pursuing me?"

The recurrence of this thought struck terror to the soul of Simon Turchi, and he buried his head in his hands. Suddenly he started up, and although his lips twitched convulsively, he said, in a firm, strong voice:

"Ah! ah! fatality is a spur which inspires the most cowardly with coinage. Avaunt, foolish fears! I must struggle on to the end. The bailiff seeks a corpse; he pledges his honor to discover one. Let him find it! Suppose he should find it elsewhere than in my summer-house? in a sewer, for example? Ah! anxiety had clouded my mind! Still, still, I have means for triumph! Oh, if Julio-would come! Could I only imagine in what tavern the rascal is gambling, I would send Bernardo for him."

Saying these words, he approached the window and looked out.

"There comes the loiterer! He walks as composedly as if nothing weighed upon his conscience! He cares not for the preservation of my honor and my life; since the death of Geronimo he hates and despises me. I must appear angry and indignant, for should he suspect the fear and anxiety torturing my soul, he would be insolent, and perhaps would laugh at my anguish."

As Julio approached the house, Simon attracted his attention by loud talking, and having succeeded in this, he made signs of his impatience and anger until Julio reached the door. He then closed the window, and assuming an expression of rage he turned to meet his servant.

When Julio on entering saw his master standing with folded arms and menacing countenance, a slight and ironical smile flitted across his face.

"Wretch!" exclaimed Simon, "did I not order you to await me here after Change? Look well to yourself, or I will avenge myself by your blood. You laugh! beware, or I will crush you like a worm!"

"Come, come, signor, why give way to such useless anger? It is not long since Change. It is not my fault that you have been obliged to wait."

"Have you not been going from tavern to tavern, gambling, as you have been doing the last five days?"

"Yes, truly. I was intolerably thirsty; but if I was not here in time, you must blame the clock of Notre Dame; it could not have struck right, I am sure. So be calm, signor: you know that your anger makes no impression on me. Make haste and tell me what you want me to do. We lose precious time in this nonsensical sort of talk. I left some friends to come and receive your orders, and I must add that I intend returning to them as soon as I have fulfilled your commands. You need not shake your fist at me, nor get into a passion; it will do no good."

The disrespectful language of his servant wounded and provoked Turchi; but perhaps seeing how useless it was to give expression to his feelings, he suddenly changed his manner. Tears filled his eyes; grief was depicted upon his countenance, and seating himself, he sighed and said:

"Forgive me, Julio, for my harsh words; they were spoken in impatience. It is too early yet for you to do what I wish, and I was wrong to complain of your long absence."

The servant, surprised at his master's humble language, regarded him distrustfully.

"Is there any danger?" he demanded.

Turchi took his hand, and said, piteously:

"Alas! Julio, my friend, to-morrow, in all probability, we will be cast, manacled, into a dungeon, there to await an infamous death."

"Is it not your own fear, signor, which inspires such a thought?" asked Julio, trembling.

"No; I have heard a terrible piece of news. Geronimo was seen in the Quarter of the Jews, and he was met going towards the Hospital Grounds. The bailiff has determined to search to-morrow morning all the cellars in that vicinity, and even to dig the ground on the spot where my garden lies. The police agents are to proceed at daybreak to the Hospital meadows, and as they cannot fail to remark that the earth has been newly turned up, they will certainly discover what they seek. You pushed Geronimo into the arm-chair; you buried his body; consequently you will accompany me to the scaffold, unless, in your capacity of servant, they may choose to hang you or break you on the wheel. O Julio! does not this information awaken you to a sense of our perilous condition?"

"From whom did you learn all that?" asked the affrighted servant.

"From the bailiff himself."

"From his own lips?"

"Yes, my friend, from his own lips. In spite of your courage and coolness, I think I may say that you have no stronger desire than myself to die by the hand of the executioner."

Julio put his hand to his throat and said, dejectedly:

"The affair looks serious. I seem to be strangling; I feel the rope around my neck. It is all your fault, signor. Why did you murder your best friend? Did I not warn you that so frightful a crime would come to light?"

"Call it crime, if you will; but at least my just vengeance is satisfied, and now neither complaints nor recriminations can recall the past nor shelter us from danger."

"But, signor, what can we do to escape punishment?"

"There is a means, easy and certain. There is a means; but, Julio, it requires good will and resolution. May I rely upon you for this last effort?"

"What would not one be willing to do in order to escape this gallows or the wheel?"

"Then listen to me. I told you that the bailiff would search the cellars. If he finds the corpse in my house, we are both ruined."

"Certainly, signor."

"But suppose it be found in another place, far from this spot, who would suspect us of the murder?"

"An excellent thought!" exclaimed Julio, joyfully. "We must carry the dead body to a distant street and leave it there."

"Not so. They would naturally suppose that it had been removed to that spot from some other place. A better plan is to throw it into the sewer in the Vleminck Field. The officers of justice will then conclude that Geronimo fell under the hand of some unknown assassin."

"That is still better! Ah! signor, you frightened me without cause. I place very little value on my life, and yet the thought of a certain death shatters my nerves. Now I am myself again. But how shall we manage to transport Geronimo's body to the Vleminck Field?"

"It was for that purpose, Julio, that I was waiting so impatiently for you," said Simon Turchi; "it was because I needed your aid to execute a project which will save us both. Nothing is easier. You will disinter the body, and you will throw it into the sewer."[24]

"Alone?" said the servant, in a tone which prognosticated a refusal.

"Why not alone, since you are able to do it?"

"It is very easy, signor, for you to say: 'Take the body on your shoulders and traverse three or four streets.' Signor Geronimo is heavier than you suppose, and I doubt if by the exertion of all my strength I could carry it twenty steps."

Simon Turchi took his servant's two hands in his, and said, supplicatingly:

"Julio, my friend, be generous; it is not a difficult task for one like yourself. Reflect that it is our only means of safety; it is as much for your interest as mine. I will recompense you largely, and I will be grateful to you all my life."

"Well, signor, if you say so, I will try it; but I am afraid it will turn out badly. I shall be obliged to rest on the way, and that will take more time than will be prudent. And then how shall I be able each time to replace the body on my shoulders? It requires two to transport it with sufficient rapidity."

"Two?" said Turchi, "You know well that we can confide our secret to no one."

"To escape death, one would submit to anything. Suppose you help me yourself, signor?"

"I!" replied Turchi, shuddering, "I carry a dead body through the streets! I, a nobleman! No, no; better a dungeon and death!"

"What a strange sentiment of honor!" muttered the astonished servant. "Would to God, signor, that you had sooner remembered that you were a nobleman, we would not thus be seeking, in mortal anguish, the means to save our lives. Consider the affair as you will, you must confess that if I carry the corpse alone, ten chances to one we shall be discovered."

While the servant thus spoke, Turchi seemed preoccupied by torturing thoughts. After a moment he said, with a sigh:

"Alas! there is no other means; it is dangerous, but necessity demands it. Julio, go to the summer-house, and I will send Bernardo this evening to help you."

"What" said Julio, ironically, "will you reveal your secret?"

"No; I will command him, under penalty of his life, to do whatever you order him; threaten to stab him at the least show of resistance, and he will obey you."

"Impossible! Signor Bernardo is a good, pious man. He would inform upon us. I might as well put the halter around my neck. I will have none of his aid."

Simon Turchi, in despair at the failure of all his efforts to succeed in his design, paced the floor impatiently. Suddenly he stopped before his servant, and with sparkling eyes he said, in a suppressed voice:

"Julio, there must be an end to all this hesitation. We have no choice, and whatever may be the means, we must not deliberate in presence of the death which menaces us. Stab Bernardo, and throw him into the sewer above the body of Geronimo."[25]

"Oh, signor, murder Bernardo!" exclaimed Julio, in horror. "And do you suppose that he would not defend himself? that he would not give the alarm? In that case, your servant would be recognized, and thus they would put them on the track of the criminals. Your mind wanders."

Grinding his teeth in his agony, Turchi tossed his arms convulsively, and at last said, hoarsely:

"You will not undertake it alone? You have not the wish to succeed. Coward that you are, for what are you fit but to boast and drink and gamble in the taverns? Would that I had never seen you! Leave the corpse in the cellar; let the bailiff discover it there; we will see which of us will meet the more courageously an infamous death!"

A prey to the keenest emotion, he fell back in his chair, and while uttering bitter invectives against his servant, he tore his hair in real or feigned despair.

The sight of-his master's desolation seemed to make some impression upon Julio; he regarded him compassionately, and at last said, kindly:

"Come, signor, calm yourself. All is not lost, and if my good-will can save you, I will show you that Julio has the courage and resolution to carry him through a difficult enterprise. Since you think I am able to take the corpse alone to the sewer, I will attempt it. Perhaps I may overrate the difficulties. Be calm, and rely upon my word."

The signor knew that once having made up his mind, his servant would unhesitatingly execute what he had undertaken, and he comprehended by his manner that his promise was seriously made. He pressed his hand, and said, joyfully:

"Thanks, Julio, I owe to you my honor and my life. I will never forget it, and when once the sword, now hanging over my head, is removed, I will reward you magnificently. Go now to the country-house, disinter the body, and carry it up to the ground-floor. This will give you less work later. Fill the grave thoroughly, and as far as possible destroy all appearance of the earth having been recently dug."

Julio apparently let his master's words fall unheeded on his ear; he suddenly struck his forehead with his fist, as if an unwelcome idea had forced itself upon him.

"What is the matter?" asked Turchi, anxiously.

"Fool that I am!" exclaimed Julio.

"Speak lower," said Simon. "What troubles you?"

"Did you not notice, signor, how bright it was last night? It is clear weather, and the moon is full! How could I carry a dead body to the sewer with such light to betray me? It is impossible; I cannot think of it."

These words forced from Simon a cry of anguish. He seemed crushed under the fate which was visibly pursuing him. The cowardice and ill-will of his servant had not cast him into despair like this last obstacle; for he well knew that either by threats or promises of reward he could overcome Julio's resistance; but what could prevent the moon from shining? It was clear that no way remained of removing Geronimo's body from the cellar, and the officers of the law would infallibly discover where the murder had been committed.

It was then true that for him there was no escape from ruin; that a mysterious power opposed all his plans; perhaps God himself was interposing to prevent him from saving his life.

The supposition made him shudder; nevertheless he tortured his mind to discover some plank of safety; a thousand tumultuous thoughts presented themselves. Might they not bury the body in a retired spot of the garden, plunge it in the basin of the fountain, or conceal it under the stones of the grotto? But none of these plans could be accomplished without leaving traces which would lead to certain discovery.

Suddenly a happy idea seemed to occur to him, for his face brightened; he arose and said:

"Julio, you must leave the country; it is your only means of safety."

"I leave the country!" said Julio; "and you, signor?"

"Would that I could accompany you! but I cannot say as you can: 'Where my body is, there is all I have and all I care for.' I must of necessity remain here: I have many interests to detain me."

Julio was astonished by the advice.

"Where shall I go? In Italy a price is set upon my head; I dare not be seen beyond the mountains. It is too late for me to leave for England; there are no vessels ready to sail. What could I do in Germany, ignorant of the language of the country and without means of subsistence?"

"Save your life, Julio; go to Germany," said Turchi. "I will give you money, plenty of money."

The deep red of the scar on his master's face, his expression of cunning, his evident satisfaction, made Julio suspect some deception. He was unable at first to imagine his secret design; but a light suddenly broke upon his mind, and recoiling with horror and anger, he exclaimed:

"What an odious trap you are setting for me! You intend to accuse me of the murder in my absence? And while poor Julio, charged with a double crime, finds no resting-spot upon earth, you will enjoy here in entire security, in the midst of wealth and honor, the price of the innocent blood which you have shed. No, no, I will bring no new anathema on my head."

"You are silly, Julio," said Simon Turchi, disdainfully. "Should we be arrested to-morrow, and the truth known, would you not be equally punished for having treacherously pushed Geronimo into the chair?"

"Yes; but all would know that I neither conceived the crime, nor profited by its commission."

"A fine consolation, to contend on the scaffold!" said the signor ironically, repressing his impatience. "But I will speak to you plainly and without reserve. I will state my conditions; if you refuse them, then all is at an end between us. Each of us is at liberty to save himself even at the sacrifice of the other. The worst part of the whole is that I might feel myself obliged, for my own security, to make known to the authorities of Lucca who you are."

The servant regarded his master with an expression of disgust and aversion.

"These are my conditions," said Simon. "You will leave immediately for Germany, and reach the Rhine as soon as possible. I will give you two hundred crowns. Procure a carriage and horse at the very first village, and do not stop until you are in a place of safety. To prevent any detention on the way, I will give you a letter to Signor Mazzuchelli, a banker at Cologne. If on the journey you are asked why you have undertaken it, say that you are on urgent business for your master, and if necessity require it, show the letter; but once in Cologne, do not present the letter to Mazzuchelli. Two hundred crowns! that is a fortune, Julio. With that you can live luxuriously for two or three years. And what difference will it make whether you know the language of the country or not. Money understands and speaks all languages."[26]

"And when the two hundred crowns are spent, what will become of me?" said the servant.

"I will not forsake you, Julio," said Turchi. "Whenever you need money, inform me of it, and I will send you enough to keep you from want. But you must change your name and simply notify me that you need money to continue your business. And your new name? It seems to me that 'Marco Castagno' would answer. What say you?"

Julio shook his head doubtfully, muttering between his teeth. Although the promise of two hundred crowns was seductive, he hesitated to accept his master's proposition.

"Why deliberate so long?" said Simon. "I offer you a certain means of escaping the gallows, and you hesitate! Moreover, I secure you a life of ease, independent, without cares, the free, joyous life of a lord, and yet you refuse."

Julio seemed to have come to a decision.

"Will you give me two hundred crowns?" he demanded.

"Two hundred crowns in coin."

"Before my departure?"

"Immediately."

"Give them to me. I am in a hurry to depart."

"I will go for them," said Turchi, leaving the room.

Julio seated himself and rested his head upon his hands. But he had not long for reflection; his master returned after a short absence.

Simon Turchi held a purse in his hands. He went to the table and counted out four piles of gold pieces.

The sight of so much money made an impression on Julio, and he approached the table. Joy sparkled in his eyes, and whilst he contemplated the shining pieces, he nodded his head with an air of satisfaction.

"You see," said Simon, "that the sum is correct, and you will not find the gold heavy to carry. Now put it in your doublet. Going down stairs I reflected upon your good-will, and I considered whether I might not avoid accusing you of the murder of Geronimo, and my friendship for you suggested a means. Now that I am sure of being able, under any circumstances, of exculpating myself, it is not necessary for me to bring any accusation against you. Besides, Julio, I dislike to be separated from you. If in two or three months I could bring you back without danger, I would be delighted."

"I would be well pleased, signor," said Julio, with a sigh.

"In order to secure this chance to ourselves, Julio, you must, before leaving, go to the country-house, level, as far as possible, the earth in the cellar, throw sand and dust upon the grave, and then fill the cellar with fire-wood and empty casks."

"But, signor, that would take time."

"That is of no consequence. At this hour there are too many people passing through the city gates. It is better for you to pass the night at the pavilion, and to-morrow morning, as soon as the gates are open, you will leave. At daybreak you will be certain of meeting no one who would notice what direction you had taken. I suggest this for your own sake, Julio, not mine; for suppose the officers of the law should search my summer-house, those precautions would divert their attentions from the cellar, while otherwise they would infallibly discover that the earth had been recently dug. Perhaps, through respect for me, the bailiff may exempt my lands from search. In either case I will wait until the impression made by the murder has worn away. I will say nothing of you, except that you left me in consequence of a sharp rebuke, and that I do not know what has become of you. As soon as the present excitement subsides and the search is abandoned, I promise to recall you. Now will you go to the pavilion and accomplish faithfully what I advise?"

"I will."

"Do not forget your new name."

"Marco Castagno? It is easily remembered."

"Yes; Marco Castagno, and you are travelling on business. I had nearly forgotten the letter of recommendation. Wait here an instant; do not come down-stairs. I will write it at once."

When Julio was left alone he put his hand in his pocket, chinked the gold coins, and drew out a handful for the pleasure of contemplating them; but he soon returned the money to his doublet, and fell into deep thought.

"If," he muttered, "I could only set off at once! Here I am obliged to pass a whole night in that accursed pavilion! The signor thinks that Geronimo has been buried for five days, and his corpse is still above ground. To fill up the grave is not much. Suppose I let that alone, and leave this evening with the money? No, no; I will execute faithfully what I promised. My master is so generous to me, I will show him that I am not ungrateful."

"Here is the letter of recommendation," said Simon Turchi, entering the room. "It is in the name of Marco Castagno. Forget your other names, and be prudent, remembering that the least indiscretion might cost our lives. Go to the pavilion, Julio. I bid you adieu, with the hope of soon seeing you again at Antwerp."

"Shall I not take my clothes, signor, or a traveling cloak?"

"No; the cloak you have on will suffice. Were you seen with any baggage, your intention might be suspected. Appear indifferent. You can buy whatever you may need."

The servant extended his hand to his master, and going to the door, said:

"Adieu, signor; if you do not refuse to aid me when I am in want, I will keep your secret faithfully."

"Do your work in the cellar carefully, Julio. I wish you a pleasant journey."

Julio descended the staircase and walked slowly down the street.

His master opened the window and watched him until he was out of sight.

Simon Turchi drew a long breath, as though the weight of a mountain had been removed from his heart. A smile lighted up his face, and he said in an accent of intense joy:

"He has gone! Now I have nothing to fear. The bailiff may find the body; Julio committed the crime; I know nothing of it; I am as innocent as a lamb. Ah! I thought I was lost. Now I must arrange my plans as though I were certain of the discovery of the body. I feel new strength; hope and certainty animate my heart. Mary, Mary, your name, your fortune, your love will be mine. My life will yet be crowned with grandeur, wealth, and happiness."

And in feverish excitement he closed the window.



CHAPTER IX.

GERONIMO RESURRECTED.

The clock in the steeple of Saint George struck seven, and night was coming on, when Julio opened the garden-gate of his master's country-seat and walked with a light step towards the house.

He kept one hand wrapped in his cloak, as if to conceal some object; the other was in his pocket, turning over the gold pieces given him by Simon Turchi. Joy sparkled in his eyes, as he said to himself:

"God be praised! I resisted the temptation. They urged me to drink and play at the 'Swan,' but my gold coins reminded me that I had a serious duty to perform. After work comes the recompense. What I hold in my hand will indemnify me for the thirst I have suffered and for the time lost. It is the very best Spanish wine—as dear as if it were melted silver, and as strong as if it were liquid fire."

On entering a room in the house, he drew two bottles from his doublet and one from under his cloak, placed them upon the table, and looked at them longingly.

"No, no, not now; presently! Business first. Your bewitching smile cannot seduce me. Patience, my friends; an hour hence we will become acquainted. To fill up a grave and roll some empty casks into the cellar is a small matter. But it is getting so dark that I can no longer distinguish the image of the emperor on the gold pieces; I must light the lamp."

Taking a wooden box from the mantelpiece, he drew out a flint and struck it. It was some time before the tinder took fire, and Julio laughed at his own failures; but at last he succeeded in his efforts, and a large lamp made the whole room bright with its rays.

Julio approached the table and said:

"Now at least I can gratify the desire which has irritated my nerves during the last hour. To possess two hundred crowns, to be as rich as a banker, to feel my pockets weighed down by gold, and still unable to feast my eyes on the treasure! Now I am alone; there is no one to ask whence it came. The time has arrived. I may enjoy my wealth without anxiety!"

He drew an arm-chair to the table, reclined in it comfortably, with extended limbs, and placed the gold coin by handfuls under the light of the lamp.

After searching his pocket and doublet and convincing himself that all the crowns were spread out before him, he heaped them up and ran his hands through them as if to enjoy the sparkle and jingle of the gold. He held his breath, for fear of losing the least sound; with eyes wide open he contemplated the brilliant treasure.

For a long time Julio remained, with a smile of happiness upon his lips, in mute admiration, and, perhaps scarcely aware of what he was doing, he ranged the crowns in a line and counted them; then he separated them into piles of twenty pieces each; then he tossed them from hand to hand, until, wearied of this amusement, he looked at them musingly. At last he exclaimed in a joyous outbreak:

"Two hundred crowns! What will I do with them? How will I spend them? Shall I drink Malmsey, Muscatel, the very best, such as brings pleasure to the heart? But at that rate I shall soon see the end of my money. Shall I play for florins and crowns? That would be an excellent means, certainly, of either becoming a hundred times richer or of losing every farthing. Strange! how fearful and avaricious money makes me! I do not even care to play; no, I will not do it. I will dress like a nobleman: in satin, velvet, and silk; I will drink and eat of the most exquisite dishes; I will Jive in luxury and abundance, as though the world were a terrestrial paradise. Ah, what a glorious life!

"But what a cowardly wretch I am! My only anxiety is to know how to spend or rather squander this treasure, and at this moment there lives, far from me, one who perhaps is stretching out her hand to me to beg an alms! My poor mother! she may even need bread. Were she to curse her ungrateful son, would he not have deserved it a hundred times? I am afraid of myself! With ten crowns, with the twentieth part of what I am going to throw away in dissipation, she might be saved from misery for more than a year. Why did I not give twenty crowns to my master to send to her? Suppose I return to the factory to execute this good thought? Impossible! Signor Turchi would be enraged; besides, I have no confidence in him. I will inquire, when in Germany, if she still lives, and if she be in want I will send her money."

He took up twenty crowns, one by one, from the table, counted them, regarded them wistfully, and said, as he dropped them into his pocket:

"Twenty crowns! that is a large sum; but it may make my blind old mother happy. I will put her portion by itself."

His eye again rested on the glittering coin. The sight appeared to deject him.

"How visibly it has diminished!" he said, sighing. "I believed my treasure inexhaustible, and by one thought the twentieth part has disappeared. Will it not go as fast in Germany? Will not gambling and drinking deprive me of the whole in a few months and leave me in misery? What sombre thoughts! A moment ago, and everything wore a smiling aspect; now, my mind is tortured by fear and anxiety. But why need I be troubled? When I have spent the two hundred crowns, Signor Turchi will send me more. But it is not well to rely too much upon that; his head may fall under the axe of the executioner. In that case I would be as badly off myself. The discovery would drive me from Germany into Netherlands or Italy. Instead of living in luxury, I would infallibly fall into the lion's jaw, and the gallows or the wheel would be my well-merited fate. But if the murderer of Geronimo be not discovered, I can return quietly, and my master would receive me kindly for fear I would betray his secret. That depends in a great measure upon my care in acquitting myself of the task entrusted to me. I will accomplish it loyally and well. The sight of this gold no longer gives me pleasure. A full cup of wine first, and then to work bravely!"

He uncorked one of the bottles and half emptied it; then muttering a few words as to the strength and energy imparted by the liquor, he took the lamp, and fixing his eye on the bottle, said:

"It will take me only a few minutes to throw the body into the grave and fill it up; but the rest of the work will require more than an hour. That is a long time to be separated from you, is it not? To keep me company, I will take the half-empty bottle; that will not hinder me from doing my duty properly; on the contrary, it will give me courage and strength. Now to work!"

He re-corked the bottle, put it inside of his doublet, took the lamp, and slowly descended the staircase.

The passage leading to the cellar in which Julio had thrown Geronimo's body was rather long, and he had time to feel the effect of the wine, and it so raised his spirits that he commenced jesting about hid past anxiety, and on nearing the cellar he sang the first notes of a joyful song.

But the words expired upon his lips, he trembled in every limb, and turned ashy pale.

A voice answered him from the cellar.

Immovable from terror, Julio fixed his eyes upon the door, and strove to comprehend the words which fell indistinctly upon his ear.

"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "it is Geronimo; he lives!"

Shuddering, he withdrew a short distance down the passage, and was for a time as motionless as a statue. At last, with deep emotion, he said:

"What can this mean? The signor said at the first thrust his dagger met metal, but that the wound in his neck was deep. Suppose it were merely a flesh-wound? What shall I do? Shall I let him live?"

He was painfully undecided.

"Impossible!" he said. "It would be the death-warrant of both my master and myself. I must choose between his death and ours. Implacable fatality urges me on—in truth, I have no choice. One blow, and all is over! I must not hesitate; my knife is sharp."

He drew his dagger from its scabbard, examined the blade, tried it with his finger. He shuddered, and a cry of horror escaped him.

"Fatal position!" he exclaimed. "To kill a man in cold blood! an innocent man! What harm has poor Geronimo ever done me? Stab him! My heart fails me—I cannot perpetrate such a cruelty. And yet, and yet I must! The crime horrifies me, but I have no alternative. Only by the sacrifice of his life can my master escape the scaffold, and I the gallows. Fate irresistibly pursues me; I am the slave of necessity—I must follow whither it leads!"

With staggering step and in a blind frenzy, Julio ran down the passage, caught his dagger between his teeth, put the key in the lock, and turned the light so that it might fall upon his victim.

He stopped trembling in the middle of the cellar, and pity filled his soul as his eye rested on Geronimo. He had indeed drawn his dagger to complete the horrible crime; but now, touched and moved by compassion, he considered the unfortunate young man, who extended to him his suppliant hands and begged for help.

Geronimo was kneeling on the side of the grave which had been dug to receive his corpse. His face was partly covered with clotted blood; the portion visible was excessively pale, and his cheeks were so sunken that those few days of suffering had left only the skin to cover his bones. His eyes, rolling wildly, were sunk in their sockets; his neck, weakened by the wound, could not support his head, which fell upon his right shoulder. His clothes were blood-stained and covered with dirt. It was evident that in his struggle against death he had dragged himself around the tomb to try, if possible, to escape it.

"Whoever you may be," cried out Geronimo, "for the love of God, one drop of water!"

His voice was weak, but capable of moving the hardest heart.

Julio shook his head, without speaking.

"Water! water!" repeated the young man. "I am burning up, consumed by thirst. Water! water! one drop of water! Save me from a frightful death!"

Moved by pity and forgetting, as it were, his own situation, Julio thrust his hand under his doublet, drew out the bottle, uncorked it, and without speaking gave it to the wounded gentleman. He uttered a cry of joy, seized the bottle with feverish energy, and kissed with transport the hand which presented him the saving beverage.

Julio, with palpitating heart, watched the unfortunate Geronimo, as with trembling joy he placed the bottle to his lips, as if the contents were imparting to him a new life.

And indeed, after having quaffed a deep draught, Geronimo appeared to have new strength; for a sweet smile appeared upon his face, his eyes sparkled with gratitude, and lifting his hands to Julio, he said:

"May God bless you! you have saved me from a frightful death. May Heaven hear my prayer and reward you on the day of judgment for all the good I may have done in my life. The light blinded me; I could not see. Are you not Julio?"

This recognition struck Geronimo with terror, and in a feeble and discouraged voice he said:

"Julio, Julio, you pushed me into the chair!"

Then seeing the dagger in Julio's hands, he shuddered.

"A dagger in your hand! Ah! you come to kill me?"

"Yes, signor," replied Julio, sadly, "I come to take your life; but do not suppose I fulfil this fatal mission without emotion; on the contrary, my heart bleeds for you, and I feel an indescribable repugnance to deal the fatal blow."

"Ah! you are not merciless; you will have pity on me," said Geronimo.

"Impossible!" replied Julio. "Fatality governs us both; it has irrevocably condemned you to death, and me to inhumanity. All prayer, all supplication is useless; nothing can save your life. I beg you, signor, not to increase the difficulties of my task; accept with resignation a fate you cannot escape."

A sharp cry escaped Geronimo, as these unfeeling words convinced him that all hope was lost.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "is it then true that this dungeon is to become my tomb? Must I die without confession? Shall my body lie in unconsecrated ground? Oh, mercy! mercy!"

"Necessity is a merciless law, signor," replied Julio, "and I have more cause than you to complain of its harshness. You, at least, will receive in heaven the recompense of your innocent life, while I must commit here a crime from which I recoil with horror, but which is forced upon me by an irresistible power, and for which my poor soul will stand accused before the judgment-seat of God. But do not cherish a deceitful hope; there is no hope for you. Before I depart from here, that grave must receive your body. That I did not immediately on entering fulfil my sad mission is partly owing to the fact that an uncontrollable compassion paralyzed my arm, but still more, to my desire to afford you time to say some prayers. Therefore prepare your soul for its last passage. I will wait patiently even for a quarter of an hour. Pray with a tranquil mind—I will not strike without giving notice."

Saying these words, Julio put down the lamp replaced his dagger in its scabbard, and seated himself on a block of wood which was in a corner of the cellar.

Geronimo, overwhelmed by Julio's insensibility, bowed his head upon his breast. For some time he neither spoke nor moved, seeming to accept his fate with complete resignation. But the terror of death again possessed him.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed. "You will not kill me, Julio? I conjure you, by your soul's salvation, not to imbrue your hands in my blood!"

And the unfortunate young man endeavored to drag his feeble body to Julio's feet; but the latter drew his dagger in a threatening manner.

Geronimo uttered a cry of despair, crawled back to the side of the grave, and fell exhausted on the ground, where he bewept his sad fate.

His stifled sobs were so heart-breaking that Julio's soul was stirred within him, and without being conscious of it, he wiped away the tears which fell from his eyes.

In a voice full of compassion he said:

"Come, signor, be calm, and submit with resignation to the irrevocable decree of fate. When one has lived like you in the fear of God, honorably and loyally, death is but the passage to a better life."

A cry of indignation mingled with the convulsive sobs of the young gentleman.

"I understand you," said Julio; "you think that my pity is a cruel irony; you believe me to be inhuman. Even in the tomb you might justly call down maledictions on the head of the murderer who of his own will and choice would deprive you of life. But, alas! signor, I have neither will nor choice in the matter. To-morrow the officers of justice will search this house and cellar."

"To-morrow!" exclaimed Geronimo, a new hope-springing up in his heart.

"If I let you live, they would infallibly find you here," pursued Julio. "This hope inspires you with joy; vain hope! signor, for should it be realized, my master would perish on the scaffold, and I would expiate my crime on the gallows!"

"Julio," said Geronimo, beseechingly, "I will remove all suspicion from you; I will declare you innocent; I will reward you magnificently."

"It would be useless, signor. The law knows no mercy. My master would betray the part I had in the deed; and do you think the judges would pardon me for having pushed you into the chair?"

"Save me, spare my life, Julio; and if necessary for your acquittal, I will kneel to the bailiff, I will appeal to the emperor himself."

"There is another reason, unknown to you, signor," replied Julio, bitterly. "I am a fugitive, condemned to death by the laws of Italy. My master alone knows my real name. The least infidelity on my part would make him deliver me into the hands of those who for five years have been seeking me. Think you, then, that it is in my power to spare you? It is my own and my master's death you demand. And what a death! For him, the axe of the executioner and eternal infamy to his family; for me, the rack, the wheel, the gallows. Do not blame me then, signor; do not contend against implacable fate; employ your last moments in prayer, or tell me that you are ready to receive the mortal blow. Nothing can save you; that open tomb tells you a sad but pitiless truth. Again I beg you, signor, lift up your heart to God, and do not force me to make use of sudden violence."

"Die so young and guiltless!" lamented Geronimo. "Never again to see the light of heaven! O Mary, my beloved! how you will deplore my fate! My poor uncle! sorrow will bring your gray hairs to the grave!"

The accents of despair made Julio shudder; but he said, in a cold manner:

"Are you ready, signor?"

"A moment more, one moment for prayer!" said Geronimo.

He joined his hands and uttered a fervent prayer; but although he apparently accepted his fate with resignation, it was equally evident that his soul struggled against the death which was hanging over him.

By degrees, however, prayer brought resignation and consolation to Geronimo, for the nervous trembling of his limbs ceased and his voice became more distinct and calm.

Julio fixed his eyes on Geronimo, and his heart was touched when he thought he heard him ask pardon of God for his enemies; but when the lips of the young man pronounced his own name in ardent supplication, and he distinctly heard his unfortunate victim praying for the soul of his murderer, Julio dropped his knife, and said, with a deep sigh:

"My courage has forsaken me! I have not the strength to accomplish this cruel act."

"Ah!" exclaimed Geronimo, as Julio pronounced these words, "it is a voice from heaven speaking to your heart. Hearken to it. Have pity on me! spare my life!"

Julio was too absorbed in his own thoughts to heed Geronimo. In accents of despair he muttered:

"Frightful situation! Beside the very grave I have dug for him, he prays for my soul! And can I shed his blood? But there is no help for it. I must—I must!"

The young gentleman remarked the struggle in Julio's soul, and he mustered up all his strength to approach him; but Julio, seeing Geronimo's design, picked up his knife, took the lamp, and left the cellar, saying:

"It is useless, signor. Fate is more powerful than we are; and struggle as we may against its inevitable decrees, they must be accomplished! The sight of your sorrow has deprived me of all courage. I go to regain strength. I will soon return. Be prepared, for this time I will act without delay!"

He closed the door and walked slowly down the passage. Having reached his room, he stamped with anger, uttered desperate words, struck his forehead with his fist, vented his impatience, because he could see no solution of his difficulties. He paced the room like a madman, fought the air, stopped, resumed his walk,—until exhausted he threw himself into a chair. Sorrow, anguish, and rage, by turns were depicted on his countenance. He lamented the necessity of the murder, and complained in bitter terms of his sad fate. But in vain he tortured his brain—not a ray of light came to illumine his darkness. The pitiless "I must do it!" was the invariable refrain.

By chance his eye fell upon the two bottles which he had placed upon the table, and as if the sight had inspired him with a sudden resolution, he seized one of the bottles, uncorked it, and putting it to his lips, drank a long draught, stopped a moment for breath, then emptied the bottle.

He remained some time immovable as if to test the influence of the wine on his mind, swallowed half of the second bottle, drew his dagger, took the lamp, and descended the stairs, saying:

"Now my courage will not fail me! No more words: a single blow and all will be over! I must strike him in the back; he wears a cuirass on his breast."

Opening the door of the cellar, he placed the lamp on the ground without speaking, and raising his dagger, he walked directly towards Geronimo, who lifted his hands imploringly.

Within a few steps of his victim, Julio, with an exclamation of surprise, stopped suddenly as if immovable. His eye fell upon an object which Geronimo held in his hand and extended to him, as though it had power to turn aside the mortal blow.

It was a flat copper medal, in the centre of which was a cross and other emblems, and attached to it was a bright steel chain.

Julio, forgetful of what he was about to do, sprang forward, seized the strange medal, examined it closely, and said, in astonishment:

"This amulet in your hands, signor! What does it mean? How came you by it?"

Geronimo, whose every thought was fixed upon death, was too much startled by the sudden transition to reply immediately.

"Speak, tell me whence comes this amulet? Who gave it to you?"

"From Africa—from a blind woman," answered Geronimo, almost unintelligibly.

"In Africa? And the woman's name?" said Julio, beside himself with impatience.

"Mostajo. Teresa Mostajo!"

"Teresa Mostajo! You are then the liberator of my poor blind mother!"

"Then you will spare my life! God of mercy, I thank thee, there is still hope!"

But Julio heeded not the words of the young man.

"This amulet," he said, "recalls my native village. I see again my father, mother, friends. I see myself as I was before dissipation led me to sin and vice. This amulet, brought by my grandfather from Jerusalem, protected my father against many dangers, saved my mother's life; and you, signor, you owe to the same amulet escape from a violent death, for it turned aside my master's dagger from your breast. Strange and mysterious power which thus shields the victim from his executioner!"

"Julio," said Geronimo, "keep me not in suspense. Say that you will not take my life. Be merciful to the man whose name is blessed by the lips of your mother!"

"Fear not, signor; rather than shed one drop of your blood, I would pay the penalty of my guilty life on the gallows. But I must reflect upon our peculiar situation, for my mind is not clear; perhaps I may discover a means of escape. Do not disturb me, I beg you."

He withdrew to the corner of the cellar where he had been previously seated, and remained motionless for some time, without giving any sign of the agitation of his mind.

Geronimo regarded him at first with a look of joyful anticipation; by degrees, however, his face wore an expression of sadness and surprise; it seemed to him that Julio had fallen asleep. He was mistaken, however, for Julio arose after a while, and said:

"Now I see my way clearly. I will save you, signor; but in doing that, I might as well avoid securing a halter for myself. You must have patience until to-morrow. It is now about nine o'clock in the evening, and the time, I know, will be very long to you. But you must submit to a condition which is necessary for the preservation of my own life. To-morrow, at daybreak, I shall quit the city and country. Before leaving, I will set you at liberty. Do not attempt to shake my resolution; let me go now, signor, and expect with confidence your deliverance."

Geronimo joined his hands, and said, feebly:

"Thanks, thanks, and may the good God show you the mercy you have shown to me! I have yet a favor to implore, a benefit to ask."

"Speak, signor, what do you wish?"

"It is long since I awoke from my death-like stupor. I know not how long, and I am tormented by hunger and thirst; you have kept life in me by the wine so kindly bestowed, but now my body demands nourishment. Give me bread."

"Bread!" said Julio, "there is not a mouthful of food in the house."

But seeing Geronimo's eyes fixed in supplication upon him, he added:

"It is not late; perhaps I may find some shop still open. I will return presently; remain quiet, and have no anxiety, signor."

He took the lamp, left the cellar, closing the door after him, and ascended to his room. There folding his arms, he began to muse:

"How strange! the young merchant who, at the risk of his own life, defended my mother from her Moslem master, who paid her ransom, and liberated her from slavery—that merchant was Geronimo! By some mysterious influence the amulet protected his heart from the blade of his vindictive enemy; and when I am about to shed his blood, behold, the amulet paralyzes my arm. It is incomprehensible!"

The current of his thoughts changed. Seizing the half empty bottle, he drank its contents.

"Strange," said he, "how the bad effects of liquor are controlled by the emotions! I have taken enough to deprive me of consciousness, and I feel my mind as clear as though I had not touched a drop. This last draught, however, has mounted to my brain. So it is decreed that my master, Simon Turchi, must die upon the scaffold? It is disagreeable for both of us, but I could not help it. I shall not know what to do when the two hundred crowns are spent; necessity will force me to seek other resources, even at the risk of the gallows, and in all probability the fatal noose will encircle my neck. Bah! if it is predestined, who can prevent it? My master and I will receive only what we deserve. But I am forgetting the starving young gentleman; I must go out to procure him some food. It will be a fine opportunity to drink a pint of wine at the Swan; that cannot be closed yet, for gamblers do not keep early hours. Only one pint in passing! not more, for if my reason became clouded, I cannot answer for the consequences; but there is no need to fear that, for my life is at stake. I will return in half an hour."

He extinguished the lamp, and hastily traversed the garden.



CHAPTER X.

SIMON TURCHI'S ALARM—CRIME BEGETS CRIME.

Some time after the hour of Change, Simon Turchi had returned home, and was apparently preparing to go out again, for he had changed his doublet for one of a darker color, and his cloak lay on a chair beside him.

The signor was in high spirits; he carried his head proudly, a radiant smile illumined his countenance, and from time to time he rubbed his hands with an air of triumph. Julio had left for Germany! Nothing could have prevented his departure, for he had not been seen in the city. Simon Turchi has therefore no cause for fear, for if, contrary to expectation, his garden be searched and the corpse of Geronimo be discovered, the murder could easily be fastened upon Julio.

Already, by vague remarks to his servants and acquaintances, Turchi had prepared the way for making the accusation in case of necessity. He had exhibited great anxiety at Julio's absence the night before and during that day. He said that he had sharply reproved his servant for his dissipated habits and his neglect of duty. Julio had left him in evident anger.

The servants, who could not comprehend their master's anxiety, thought that he might be in some tavern, drowning his feelings with drink and awaiting the night to return home. To this Turchi answered that he had remarked for some time Julio's strange manner, that he seemed so absent-minded, was often heard to sigh and weep—in a word, something weighty appeared pressing on his conscience.

Early in the morning he sent Bernardo to the pavilion to see if Julio were there. Bernardo reported that there was no evidence of his having been there, except two empty bottles upon a table. Simon pretended that he had the bottles placed in the room, and Bernardo thought no more of the affair.

Simon Turchi would have satisfied himself by personal examination if Julio had thoroughly performed his work before his departure, but he feared to excite attention by his appearance in that direction; or, perhaps, he might even be obliged to assist at the search of his garden, should the bailiff refuse to exempt it. He determined to go to the cellar at nightfall, when the search must be interrupted, to examine the arrangements made by Julio. When therefore twilight was commencing to replace the glare of day, and Simon was certain of not meeting the officers of the law, he threw his cloak around his shoulders, turned with a light step and joyous heart the corner of the street, and took the direction to the square of Meir.

He had gone but a short distance, when he met Messire John Van Schoonhoven.

A smile lighted up Turchi's countenance. He was delighted to be accidentally brought into the bailiff's company, as he would thus learn the result of the researches already made.

After a polite salutation, Messire Van Schoonhoven said:

"I am happy to meet you. I was on my way to your house."

"To my house?" said Turchi. "Have you news of my friend?"

"No, signor; I wish to see you concerning an affair which, although not serious, necessitates a conversation with you. I would have spoken to you on this subject this evening when at Mr. Van de Werve's, but the place was inappropriate to such discussions."

"Return then with me," stammered Turchi, with ill-disguised anxiety.

"Where were you going, signor?" said the bailiff.

"I was going to take a walk along the Scheldt, in order to seek some diversion to the grief I feel for the disappearance of the unfortunate Geronimo."

"What I have to say, signor, need not interfere with your walk. I will accompany you a part of the way and enjoy with you the evening breeze."

The bailiff turned and walked by Turchi's side.

Looking around, to assure himself that they were not overheard, Messire Van Schoonhoven said:

"The affair in question would not require so many precautions were I not bailiff and you my friend. But in consequence of these two reasons, my mission becomes painful, and I must claim in advance your forbearance. You know that my agents are searching every house, building, and garden in the vicinity of the Hospital Grounds where Geronimo was last seen. The greatest part of this quarter has been carefully examined without any result."

Simon Turchi perfectly understood the bailiff's design, and although his heart beat painfully, he mastered his emotion, and said in an indifferent tone:

"And you think, Messire Van Schoonhoven, that my garden should be searched in like manner? It is very natural. No one is above the law—the knight and the peasant are there equal."

"Believe me, signor, that the thought of so disrespectful a conduct towards an honorable nobleman, and that nobleman my friend for years, would never have occurred to me. But the search became a necessity without any fault of mine. The presence of at least twenty of my agents in that quarter attracted the curious. A crowd followed those engaged in the search, and when it was noticed that your summer-house was the only one exempted, the magistrates were openly accused of injustice. The people were told that this was done by my order; but so great was the commotion that the affair reached the ears of the burgomaster and the constables, and these gentlemen waited on me, urging me to visit your garden likewise, so as to remove all cause of complaint."

"This explanation is wholly unnecessary, at least as far as regards myself," interrupted Simon Turchi. "I desire you to search my country-house as you do all the other dwellings in the vicinity."

They were not far from the bridge of Meir, and they ceased speaking, as in so frequented a place they were in danger of being overheard. Farther on, Turchi said:

"I acknowledge, however, that I am hurt and irritated by the disrespect and audacity of the populace. One might be tempted to suppose that they considered me capable of killing my best friend! My blood boils at the idea of such a suspicion!"

Simon gladly availed himself of the opportunity thus offered of attributing to a just indignation the cruel anxiety which tortured him. He had anticipated the announcement just made him by the bailiff, and in consequence had taken suitable measures to screen himself in case of discovery; but now a terrible doubt as to the result of the search, and as to the confidence which might be reposed in his statements, arose in his mind. The least unforeseen accident, the slightest oversight in his arrangement, might be his ruin.

"It is scandalous!" he exclaimed, shaking his fist. "To express publicly the opinion that a nobleman could so far degrade himself as to become a secret assassin! I will know who my insolent calumniators are, and I will then see if justice has power at Antwerp to protect an innocent stranger against the defamation of the people!"

"Calm yourself, signor," said Messire Van Schoonhoven; "I comprehend your well-founded indignation; but you are mistaken if you think the perquisition ordered by the burgomaster and constables be, in your regard, aught but a condescension to the clamors of the multitude. As for myself, I beg you not to be displeased with me for accomplishing my duty."

"You need offer no excuse, messire," said Simon, speaking more calmly. "It is but proper and natural to search my garden. I am irritated solely by the insolence of the people. Do your duty, and continue to honor me with a friendship of which I am proud, and of which I will always strive to be worthy."