"When will it be convenient to you, Signor Turchi, to have the officers visit your house?" asked the bailiff.

"The time is perfectly indifferent to me."

"But appoint an hour; I would regret causing you any inconvenience or trouble."

Simon Turchi reflected a moment, and said:

"To-morrow morning urgent affairs demand my attention; come then about noon."

"Suppose we say two o'clock?"

"Very well; between two and three."

"I will call for you to accompany me, signor. Do not be disturbed by this domiciliary visit; it implies no suspicion, but, as I said before, it is a simple condescension to the populace. Shall I have the honor of meeting you this evening at the house of Mr. Van de Werve?"

"I do not know, messire. Mary's excessive grief affects me so much that it haunts me day and night. Would that I could offer the least consolation to the afflicted young girl! But of what use is it to mingle my tears with hers, when there is no ray of hope to illumine the darkness of her despair?"

Messire Van Schoonhoven pressed Simon's hand.

"Your sincere friendship for Geronimo does you honor, signor," he said. "Were he your own brother, you could not be more deeply grieved. And how great is your generosity! Geronimo was your friend, but he was at the same time an obstacle to the accomplishment of the dearest wish of your heart. Through affection for him you have sacrificed your fondest hopes of happiness. But the inexplicable disappearance of Geronimo spreads out before you a brighter future. Time will alleviate the bitterness of Mary's sorrow, and who so well as yourself, signor, could restore her to happiness—you who possess her father's confidence and esteem?"

"Speak not of such things," said Simon. "I would gladly yield all the happiness the future might have in store for me to see my friend once more unharmed. But alas! alas!"

"That does not prevent me, signor, from cherishing the hope that, if Geronimo is really dead, you may one day receive the reward of your sincere friendship and your magnanimous generosity. To-morrow at two o'clock! May God be with you, signor!"

"And may He protect you, messire!"

Simon Turchi watched him until he was lost to sight, and then glanced around in order to note the degree of darkness. He drew his cloak closely around him, and walked rapidly down a side street, which soon brought him before the gate of his own garden. Unlocking the door, he traversed the walk rendered almost invisible by the darkness.

Beaching the house, he lighted a lamp and ascended the stairs to a room, which, in better times, he was accustomed to use as a bed-room, when occasionally he passed the night at the pavilion.

Casting his cloak upon a chair, he seated himself near a table, evidently a prey to distracting thoughts. He drew a phial from his doublet, and fixed his eyes upon it. By degrees, however, the clouds seemed to pass from his mind. He replaced the phial in his doublet, and said, calmly:

"Why am I so terrified? Did I not expect the search? Have not my precautions been well taken? What have I to fear? Julio is already at such a distance that he cannot be overtaken. If the corpse be found in the cellar, I will impute the crime to Julio. My explanation will be such that there will be no room for suspicion. But suppose it should be known! O torturing doubt! What a desperate game! Wealth, honor, power, and the hand of Mary Van de Werve, against my life and the honor of my family! Triumph and happiness on the one hand; disgrace and death on the scaffold on the other! Suppose I go to the bailiff, and accuse Julio of the murder? That would put me above suspicion. But no; the search will be superficial, mere matter of form for the sake of appearances. If Julio as arranged things properly, they will merely cast a glance into the cellar. My presence will be a restraint upon the officers, and will prevent them from pushing their search so far as to imply a suspicion. If they do not find the body, as is probable, the affair will forever remain secret, and I will have in future no cause for alarm. I must take courage and descend into the cellar, to see how Julio performed the task assigned him before his departure."

He approached a large wardrobe, took from it a bottle, poured out a large glass of wine and drank it. Lighted by the lamp, he descended the staircase and approached the cellar; but before proceeding through the subterranean passage, he hesitated and stepped back:

"Singular!" he said; "I am overpowered by fear! I recoil in terror before that dark cave, as though the dead could arise from the grave to take revenge. What! I had the courage to stab him while living, and yet I tremble upon approaching the spot where lie his inanimate remains! Away with this childish terror!"

However bold his words, the Signor Turchi did not become calm, and his heart beat violently as he again slowly approached the entrance to the cellar. He hesitated an instant, as he looked down the long, dark passage, but was about to proceed, when a noise outside the building made him shake with fear.

"What can it be? Am I not mistaken? Some one unlocks the garden-gate! Will I be found here? Am I betrayed?"

After a moment of torturing doubt he fled from the cellar to his room, his hair bristling with terror.

"They open the door of the house! They are within! They come! Great heavens! What can it mean?"

A man appeared on the threshold of the room in which Simon Turchi had taken refuge.

"Julio! it is Julio!" exclaimed Simon, in despair.

The servant reeled under the influence of liquor. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wandering, and while the smile upon his lips indicated a disagreeable surprise at the presence of his master, it also said plainly that he feared not Simon's anger. He held in his hand a small wheaten loaf, but he hid it hastily under his doublet as if unwilling for Turchi to see it.

Casting upon him a look of fury, Simon Turchi sprang to his feet, clenched his fist, and exclaimed in a rage:

"This is too much! Infamous traitor! cowardly rascal! whence do you come? Does hell itself bring you here for the destruction of both of us? Speak, base drunkard, and tell me why you are here! Quick, or I will stretch you dead at my feet. I thirst for your blood."

Julio drew his knife from the scabbard and stammered, in a voice indistinct from intoxication:

"Wait awhile, signor. Wine, good wine has dulled my senses. You want to kill me? It would be very fortunate for one of us to die here—the executioner would have less work. But which of us must first render our account before the supreme tribunal, my knife and your dagger will decide. I am ready."

"Insolent wretch!" cried Turchi, grinding his teeth, "my own safety and yours compel me to a painful circumspection; but beware how you brave me! Tell me why you are not on your way to Germany."

"You ask me something that I don't know myself. But let me see. Just as I was about to leave I went to the Swan, and drank a few pints of wine. This morning, when I awoke, I was seated before a table at the Silver Dice. How I came there, I cannot tell. It was then too late for me to pass the gate. I determined to wait until to-morrow, and I came here to take a night's rest before setting out on the journey."

"And you played at dice?" said Turchi.

"I think I did; for the rattling of the dice still sounds in my ears."

"And the money? the two hundred crowns?"

"Be quiet, signor, on that point. I ask you for nothing. What business is it of yours that I have spent or lost a few pieces of gold, provided I leave for Germany to-morrow at daybreak?"

Simon Turchi was like one frenzied.

"Yes," he exclaimed, "and at the first tavern you meet on the way you will drown your senses with drink, and you will squander my money."

"Not so, signor; rely upon me—I will leave to-morrow morning at daybreak, and if I drink on the way it will only be to quench a burning thirst."

Simon Turchi's eye shone with a sudden and mysterious light, excited by some secret thought. He became calm, and shrugging his shoulders, said quietly, as though he submitted with resignation to the contradictions which he could not avoid:

"I ought, Julio, to punish your want of fidelity. If the bailiff had come here to-day, as I expected, your culpable neglect of duty would have placed us both in the hands of justice. Fortunately the visit will not be made before noon to-morrow. As your negligence has had no evil consequences, I fully pardon you, upon condition that you leave the city before sunrise, and that you travel without stopping until you reach the Rhine."

"Never fear this time, signor," replied Julio. "I will pass the night here, and at early dawn I will be beyond the city gate. In the first village I will buy a horse, and I will make such speed that he who would catch me must needs have wings."

He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, and said:

"I am overpowered by fatigue and sleep. If you have no other directions to give, permit me, signor, to go to bed, that I may be ready for the morning."

"Then I may rely upon you, Julio?"

"Have no anxiety about my journey; the rising sun will not find me at Antwerp."

"Are you certain?"

"As certain as I am that a halter hangs over my head, and over yours something quite as disagreeable."

This jest of his servant made Turchi convulsively contract his lips, but he restrained any expression of feeling, and arose, saying:

"Julio, would you like a glass of good Malmsey?"

"Ah, signor," replied the servant, "I was just thinking that a cup of Malmsey would relieve my parched throat, when, lo! my desire finds an echo in your heart."

"One single glass—a parting bumper."

"One or many, signor, as you wish—either will be welcome; but the excellent wine locked in the cupboard of your room will be particularly acceptable."

"Well, Julio, come with me, and we will drink to the happy termination of your journey."

He arose, traversed a passage, and ascended to the upper story. The servant followed him staggering, and trying to steady himself by the wall.

Having reached his bed-room, Turchi drew a second chair to the table, and said:

"Sit down, Julio; here is a bottle already opened. If I did not fear its effects, we would empty it in honor of your departure."

Julio sat down, and held the bottle before the lamp.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, "it only contains about four glasses. You need not trouble yourself about that quantity."

Signor Turchi took two large glasses from the cupboard, placed them on the table, and filled their to the brim.

"A pleasant journey to you, Julio," he said, "and may you arrive safely at your destination."

They both emptied their glasses at one draught, but the servant pushed his glass to his master, saying:

"Oh, the divine liquor! it is a cooling balm to my burning throat. One more glass, signor, I beg you."

Simon filled the glasses again, and said:

"Yes, but on condition that you wait awhile before drinking it."

Hoping that his obedience might procure him a third glass, Julio resisted the temptation to gratify himself at once.

In the meantime, Turchi contemplated his servant with a peculiar expression. There was a malicious sparkle in his eye, and a smile of triumph on his lips. He evidently had some purpose in thus watching Julio; but what could be his secret design?

At last he pretended that he was about to take the wine, but by a quick movement he upset it.

With an exclamation of impatience he raised the glass, and said:

"It is a sin to spill such wine. Now I have no more in which to drink your health. Get another bottle, Julio, from the cupboard; it is perhaps the last time that we shall drink together. On the third shelf, the bottle with the long neck."

Julio arose with difficulty from his chair, and staggered to the cupboard.

Simon Turchi thrust his hand in his doublet, and drew out a very small phial. He hastily poured nearly the whole contents into Julio's glass, and immediately concealed the phial; and although he trembled in every limb, he said, calmly:

"A little higher, Julio—to the left; that is the right bottle."

The servant brought the bottle to his master, who uncorked it; but as he was about to pour out the wine, he said:

"Empty your glass, Julio; this is a different wine, and the mixture would spoil both."

Julio drank the wine, but no sooner had he swallowed it than he exclaimed:

"What was in my glass? It had a strange, bitter taste. Did you put poison in it?"

"What a silly idea!" said Turchi, turning pale.

"You are capable of such a deed, signor."

"The lees gave the bad taste, Julio. Take another glass, and it will pass away."

Emptying his glass again, Julio said:

"You are right; it is gone. I never tasted anything in my life more disagreeable."

Turchi watched his servant narrowly. With assumed carelessness he said:

"Take care, Julio, to be up by daybreak. Go on foot to the village of Lierre; buy a good horse there, and make all possible haste to reach Diest; that is the shortest route, and you will be more likely to escape notice than on the highway. Once in Cologne, you are out of danger; but be careful not to remain there. Merchants from Antwerp frequently visit that city; you might possibly be recognized and arrested. You must leave the territories of the emperor. When the affair is forgotten, and when by my marriage with Miss Van de Werve I will have acquired a considerable fortune, I will send for you, and you will live with me as a friend rather than a servant. You shall spend your days in pleasure, and you will never have cause to regret what you have done for me. But, Julio, you do not answer? Is not such a fate desirable?"

"I am overpowered by sleep," stammered Julio, almost unintelligibly.

A triumphant smile flitted across Turchi's face.

"To-morrow at two o'clock," he continued, "the officers of justice will make a domiciliary visit here, but the bailiff will permit no search which intimates a suspicion. Since you have filled the cellar with fire-wood and empty casks, the bailiff will be satisfied that all is right. Perhaps, Julio, I may be able to recall you in two or three months."

Julio's head had fallen upon the table, but from time to time he started and muttered some indistinct words, showing that he was not in a deep sleep. Without once removing his eye from him, Simon continued to speak, although he was convinced that Julio no longer heard his words.

Suddenly Julio groaned. His head and limbs fell as though he had been struck by death; but the heaving of the chest and the deep scarlet of the cheeks proved that he was in a heavy sleep.

Simon quietly contemplated him for a while longer with a smile of satisfaction. Then he arose, approached his servant, shook him violently, and cried out:

"Julio, Julio, wake up!"

Julio did not stir.

"It succeeds according to my wishes," he said. "The poison is doing its work. He is deaf and insensible; he reposes in an eternal sleep. Life will be extinguished by degrees until sleep makes way for death. But I must not tarry. I must act quickly and forget nothing. And first the money!"

He searched Julio's pocket, and found in it one hundred and twenty crowns. After counting them on the table, he exclaimed:

"Eighty crowns spent already! It is impossible. He has either lost them at the gaming-table, or been robbed while he was sleeping in the tavern."

Still doubtful, he examined his garments, and found in a purse under his girdle the twenty crowns which he had destined for his mother.

"Ah, ah!" said Simon, laughing; "I had not all; I hear the sound of gold."

He put the twenty crowns with the rest of the money, and having satisfied himself that no more remained on the person of Julio, he was about to transfer the crowns to his pocket, when a sudden idea occurred to his mind.

"If I leave all this money on his person, they might think he had been paid to commit the deed; if I leave nothing, there will be no reason to conclude that he killed the Signor Geronimo to rob him. I wonder how much money Geronimo generally carried about him. I should suppose five or six crowns, or perhaps ten. I will leave six crowns and all the small change. And the keys? He must keep them, or, of course, he could not have entered without my knowledge. But should he be roused to consciousness by the death-agony, he might have sufficient strength to get out. I will leave him all the keys but that of the outer building. Iron bars render the place secure; he could not even enter the garden. Now I will put the phial in his doublet—no, in the pocket of his girdle; it will be as easily found. I will remove the bottles and everything which could indicate the presence of two persons."

He locked up the bottles and glasses, arranged the chairs, and wiped up the wine which had been spilled on the table and the floor.

While thus engaged, he muttered to himself:

"I must not remain longer. I myself must go to the bailiff and accuse Julio of the murder. Shall I go this evening? No; they might come and find him alive, and a powerful antidote might perhaps rouse him from sleep. To-morrow, then—to-morrow morning. But how shall I explain the affair? When and how did he reveal his crime? Night will suggest a means. All is done. I will go home and appear calm and cheerful."

He threw his cloak around his shoulders, took the lamp from the table, and walked to the door. There he stopped for a moment to contemplate his victim and precipitately descended the staircase. At the foot of the steps he extinguished the light, traversed the garden, opened the gate, and disappeared in the darkness.



CHAPTER XI.

FOOD AT LAST—DEATH OF JULIO.

When Julio left the cellar for the purpose of procuring bread, Geronimo cast himself on his knees, full of gratitude to God, to return thanks for the unexpected deliverance.

Julio had said "soon," but an hour passed, then another, then many more, and he came not.

A painful doubt began to take possession of Geronimo's mind. Had an accident happened to Julio? Had he perhaps cruelly abandoned his victim? Had he set out for Germany with the certainty that hunger would kill him whom the dagger had spared?

The unfortunate cavalier had no means of measuring the flight of time. What in the immutable darkness of his prison seemed to him a century, might in reality be only a few hours, and the promised bread would soon appear to his eyes as the star of safety—in a quarter of an hour, in a minute—that very instant.

By such reflections Geronimo sought to endure patiently the pangs of hunger. He put his ear to the keyhole and ceased breathing that he might catch the slightest sound. Alas! hour after hour passed in unbroken silence. Although Geronimo knew not whether it was day or night, his increasing sufferings were to him a sure indication of the passage of time. For a while he encouraged himself by the thought that Julio would not bring him the promised bread until dawn, and that he would give him at the same time food and liberty.

This hope by degrees diminished, and at last vanished entirely. The suffering young man could not longer deceive either his body or his mind; it became evident to him that the hour which he had hoped would restore him to freedom had long passed.

He had been abandoned—devoted to a cruel martyrdom, a frightful death! He was then to die in the midst of the torments of hunger—to die slowly in indescribable suffering, and fall into the yawning grave prepared for him!

Struck with terror by the conviction thus forced upon him, the unfortunate cavalier arose despairingly and ran panting and crying around the cellar, as though he could thus escape the death which menaced him.

The pain of his wounds was increased by this violent and feverish agitation. His breast heaved under his difficult respiration, but the gnawing hunger which agonized him made these sufferings seem light. Falling to the ground from exhaustion, he commenced, as soon as he had gained a little strength, his struggle against the tortures of hungry. At times his despair was cheered by the thought that even yet Julio might come. But Julio was plunged by the influence of poison into a mortal sleep, and in all probability would appear before Geronimo at the judgment-seat of God.

Hoping against hope, the young man seated himself on the ground. The violence of his sufferings seemed to abate and leave him at rest for a few moments. His thoughts wandered to all he loved upon earth, but the respite was of short duration. Soon the agony he endured drew from him piercing cries. During his long martyrdom no torment had equalled the present. It seemed as though he were being devoured by flames, or as if molten lead were coursing through his veins.

He writhed in convulsions, beat his breast, and in heart-rending accents called upon God for help. But nothing relieved his horrible sufferings.

He filled the air with his groans and screams, he beat the door with blind fury, tore the flesh from his fingers in his useless efforts to make an opening in his prison-walls, and ran from side to side as though the pangs of hunger had driven him mad.

At last, exhausted and convinced that there was no escape, that he must soon enter into his last agony, he threw himself upon the ground, bowed his head and joined his hands in prayer, begging for resignation to meet the death which would end his cruel martyrdom. His mind now appeared clear, and he was perfectly conscious, for after a while he shed a torrent of tears. His lips moved, giving utterance to confused sounds, but by degrees his words became more distinct, and fixing his eye in the darkness on the spot where he knew the grave had been dug, he said:

"No more hope! All is over. I must die! The grave yawns to receive me. Alas! what a place for my mortal remains! Forgotten, unknown, concealed by the darkness of a horrible crime! Not a tear will fall upon the tomb of the unfortunate victim; not a cross will mark the spot where I lie; not a prayer will be whispered over my body! Death approaches. Ah! I must not thus cling to life; I will pray and lift my hands in supplication to God. He alone—"

He stopped under the influence of a sudden emotion.

"Heavens! did I not hear a noise?"

He listened breathlessly for a time to catch the indistinct sound he thought he had heard; but he was mistaken.

"Why should I hope, when hope is no longer possible? Let me rather seek strength in the consideration of the better life which awaits me. The death I endure will purify me from all my sins. If God, in His impenetrable designs, has appointed this to be my earthly fate, He will, in His mercy, take into account before his judgment-seat what I have innocently suffered here below. Consoling hope, which, encourages me to look with confidence into eternity!

"And yet my life was so happy! Everything in the world smiled upon me; my path was strewn with roses; the future spread out before me like a cloudless sky resplendent with stars. God had not only given me health, fortune, and peace of heart, but also the hope of uniting my fate with that of a lovely young girl. Mary Van de Werve! the incarnation of all that men admire and heaven loves: virtue, piety, modesty, charity, beauty, love! Alas! alas! must I leave all that? Must I say a last adieu, renounce my hopes, and never see her again? Die and sleep forever in an unknown tomb, while she lives!"

A cry of anguish escaped him. But it was caused rather by his train of thought than by the adieu he had just spoken, for he added, in a suppliant voice:

"Pardon, O Lord, pardon! Thy creature clings to life; but be not angry with the weakness of my nature. Should I die by the terrible death of starvation, I humbly accept Thy holy will, and I bless Thy hand which deals the blow! God of mercy, grant that I may find grace with Thee!"

Calmed by this invocation, he resumed, with less emotion and in a tone which proved that his soul had received consolation:

"And if I be permitted in my last hour to offer to Thee my supplications, I pray Thee, O God of mercy, to spare my uncle, and let not my misfortune deprive him also of life. He was my father and benefactor; he taught me to live in the fear of Thy holy name. By the cruel sufferings which I endure, by my terrible death, have pity on him! Let Thy angels also guard and protect the pious and pure young girl who is before Thee as an immaculate dove! Jesus, Saviour of mankind, on the cross you prayed to your heavenly Father for those who crucified Thee. Demand not an account of my blood from my enemy. Pardon him, lead him back to the path of virtue, and after death grant him eternal rest! My strength fails; the sweat of death is on my brow. O my God! in this, my last hour, grant me the grace to die with Thy love alone in my heart, and Thy holy name alone upon my lips!"

The last words of this prayer had scarcely fallen from his lips, when he cried aloud, arose trembling, and eagerly fixed his eyes upon the opposite wall, upon which a faint streak of light flickered.

"O my God! what means this?" he exclaimed. "Light? light? a voice? Is some one coming? Is there still hope? I shall not die! Cruel dream! Frightful illusion! But no, it is indeed a light; it becomes brighter. I hear a human voice. Alas! this suspense is worse than death!"

Tottering from weakness, and supporting himself by the sides of the wall, he gained the door, and trembling between hope and fear, he put his eye to the keyhole in order to discover who was approaching his person.

He saw in the distance a man with a lamp in his hand; but his gestures were so strange, and his countenance so singular, that he was at a loss to know whether it were a human being, or only a creation of his own disordered brain.

Still he heard confused sounds in the passage; a voice seemed to complain, curse, and call for aid.

By degrees the mysterious apparition drew nearer, and Geronimo recognized the servant of Simon Turchi; but why was Julio writhing in such horrible convulsions? Why was his face so horribly contorted? Why did he threaten and rage in such harsh accents?

A horrible conviction forced itself upon Geronimo's mind. Julio had sought in drink the courage necessary to accomplish the work which fate exacted of him. He had thus drowned his senses, and had come now to slay his victim without mercy.

The thought for the moment roused his fears; but he remembered that he had just offered to God his life in expiation of his sins. He retired to the other side of the cellar, knelt by the side of the grave, and with a smile upon his lips and his eyes lifted to heaven, he calmly awaited the fatal blow.

He heard Julio trying to insert the key in the lock as if his hand were unsteady. He noticed that there was no finger in his tone of voice; on the contrary, the cries which escaped him were rather those of alarm and distress; but before he had time for reflection the door opened.

Julio put down the lamp as if his strength had entirely failed him, and fell upon the ground, exclaiming in a supplicating voice:

"O signor, help, help! I am poisoned! A burning fire consumes me! Take pity on me! For the love of God, deliver me from this torture!"

"Poisoned!" exclaimed Geronimo, hastening to Julio. "What has happened to you? The mark of death is on your face!"

"Simon Turchi gave me last night poisoned wine, in order to destroy the witness who could prove your death by his hand. He made me pay Bufferio to assassinate you. He wishes to marry Mary Van de Werve, and he desires to remove any cause of fear that his happiness may be disturbed. Ah! the poison consumes me!"

"Tell me, Julio, what I can do for your relief."

Saying this, he knelt by Julio, and threw open his doublet to give him air:

"Thanks, thanks, O my God! here is bread!" exclaimed Geronimo, almost wild with joy, and snatching with feverish haste the small loaf which Julio had concealed, and which he had entirely forgotten since his fatal stupor.

The young man, absorbed in satisfying his devouring hunger, no longer heeded Julio's complaints, but having soon appeased its cravings, he took his hands, saying:

"I bless you, Julio, and may the omnipotent God reward you in heaven. Tell me what I can do to save you. Set me at liberty, and I will fly for physician and priest. The keys—quick, the keys!"

"Alas!" said Julio, in a hopeless voice, "my cruel murderer took from me the keys of the door. We are shut up in the building. But I cannot die thus, consumed by poison, without confession, without hope of pardon for my soul! Go up-stairs, signor, call aloud, break open the door, wrest the iron bars from the windows. Collect all your strength, take pity on me and help me!"

Geronimo seized the keys, and, lighted by the lamp, he hastily traversed the subterranean passage, and mounted the staircase.

The gray dawn was appearing in the east, but to the eyes of the young man so long accustomed to utter darkness it was almost as bright as noonday.

Convinced that Julio's condition demanded immediate aid, Geronimo hastily tried all the keys in the exterior door, pulled all the bolts, endeavored to wrench the door from the hinges, and worked with so much energy that at last he fell from weakness.

Taking a short rest, he arose, threw up the windows, shook the iron bars, ran up-stairs and called aloud for help. But all his efforts were useless—the pavilion was too far removed from any habitation to permit him to indulge the hope that his voice, weak as it was, could be heard.

In running through the building—almost maddened by despair—to seek an outlet, he entered the kitchen, where he perceived a vessel full of water. The sight filled him with joy. Perhaps water, taken in large quantities, might deaden the effects of the poison and save Julio's life. At any rate, he had no other remedy, and as it was his only hope, he grasped at it as if it were an inspiration from heaven.

Filling a pitcher, he ran with it to the cellar, and radiant with joy, approached Julio, who had barely strength to ask in a feeble voice:

"Is the priest coming? Will the doctor be here? Ah! it is too late!"

"Drink," said Geronimo, holding the pitcher to his lips; "the water will cool the inflammation and refresh you."

Julio took the water.

"Thank you, signor; it is useless, the water does me no good."

"Take more, I beg you, Julio,—as much as you can."

Julio obeyed mechanically and nearly emptied the pitcher. His respiration became very labored, and the sweat ran in big drops from his brow.

"Do you feel better, Julio?" asked the young man.

"A little better; the heat is not so burning."

"There is still hope!" exclaimed Geronimo, joyfully. "Take courage, Julio; have confidence in the mercy of God. When all human aid fails us, then God gives his omnipotent assistance."

"But," said Julio, "my heart beats so feebly, my limbs are benumbed. Signor, I am dying. The poison is killing me."

"Die? Julio! You have delivered me from death, and shall I be powerless to save you? What shall I do? O my God, what can I try?"

"Think no more of it, signor," said the dying man. "I feel that there is no hope. Alas! I was partly the cause of your bitter sufferings: I pushed you into the chair; I intended to kill you, the deliverer of my blind mother! Take pity on me! Let not your just malediction follow my poor soul into eternity. Pardon me, signor, pardon!"

"Speak not thus, Julio. But for you, that yawning grave would now cover my corpse. Shall I refuse pardon to you who spared my life? No; I will pray for you, I will give alms for the repose of your soul. Have confidence in the goodness of God."

"Confidence?" said Julio, in a dying voice. "I shudder to think of the judgment which awaits me. In this, my death agony, I see with frightful clearness. I dare not hope in God's mercy. I have done nothing to merit it. A dark veil is before my eyes."

The death-rattle was in his throat.

Geronimo passed his arm around his neck and raised his head, and seeing Julio's eyes fixed upon him, he said, tenderly and fervently:

"Julio, listen to me! You say you dare not hope in the mercy of God' Have you forgotten that Jesus Christ shed his blood to redeem fallen man? Do you not know that there is joy before the angels when a sinner, by sincere repentance, escapes the eternal enemy of man and enters triumphant into heaven? You repent, do you not? You sincerely repent?"

Julio bowed affirmatively.

"Ah!" exclaimed Geronimo, "if I cannot save your body from death, at least let me keep your soul from eternal torments. Oh! if I could thus repay the debt of gratitude I owe you! Julio, were God to prolong your life, would you renounce evil and return courageously and sincerely to the path of duty and virtue? You say yes? You implore God's mercy, do you not? You have confidence in the inexhaustible treasure of his goodness? Then, Julio, raise your dying eyes to heaven, direct your last thoughts to Him who is the source of all mercy, and with full confidence let your soul wing its flight to the supreme tribunal. Already from the highest heaven God absolves the repentant sinner!"

A triumphant hope illumined the countenance of Julio as he endeavored to raise his eyes to heaven.

"Saved—his soul is saved!" exclaimed Geronimo, transported with a pious joy.

A slight convulsion passed over the limbs of Julio, his muscles became paralyzed, his head fell heavily on Geronimo's shoulder, and drawing his last breath, he murmured, almost unintelligibly:

"Mercy! O my God!"

"He is dead!" said Geronimo. "May thy soul receive my fraternal embrace in its passage to eternity! May this mark of reconciliation weigh in the balance of eternal justice!"

He bent over the dead; but as if contact with the corpse had deprived him of his little remaining strength, he fell as it were lifeless. Not a limb moved, his arms dropped motionless, his eyes closed, it seemed that his soul had also taken its flight to heaven to accompany the soul of Julio before God's judgment seat.



CHAPTER XII.

IS IT HIS GHOST?—THE GUILTY EXPOSED.

It was scarcely eight o'clock in the morning when Signor Deodati was on his way to the residence of Mr. Van de Werve.

The old merchant was walking very slowly, with his eyes cast down. From time to time he shook his head, as if disturbed by painful thoughts. His countenance expressed dissatisfaction rather than sorrow; indeed, it might even be said to indicate angry and bitter feelings.

The servant who opened the door ushered him into a parlor and went to call his master. Deodati threw himself into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and was so absorbed in thought that he was not aware of Mr. Van de Werve's entrance.

"Good morning, signor," said the Flemish noble, saluting him. "Your early visit encourages me to hope that you have news of our poor Geronimo."

"Bad news, Mr. Van de Werve, bad news," said the old man, with tearful eyes. "Sit down near me, for I have not power to raise my voice."

"I notice, signor, that you are very pale. Are you ill?"

"My emotion has its origin in something worse than illness. Day before yesterday Signor Turchi asserted in your presence that Geronimo had lost a considerable sum at play, and that he had fled the country to escape my just indignation. Great as was my confidence in Turchi, I could not credit the truth of this revelation. I determined to seek in my nephew's accounts the marks of his ingratitude, or rather the proofs of his innocence. I passed a portion of the night in calculating over and over again; for the invariable result was so frightful that my mind and heart refused to accept the evidence of my senses. The sum lost in gambling by my nephew is incredible."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve, "then the Signor Turchi was not mistaken in his suspicions?"

"Ten thousand crowns!" said Deodati sighing.

"Ten thousand crowns!" replied Mr. Van de Werve. "Impossible! That is a fortune of itself."

"And yet it is true. There is a deficit of ten thousand crowns in the money vault of the house, and there are exactly ten thousand crowns unaccounted for on the books. Not a line, not a mark refers in any manner to the employment or destination of this sum. Evidently it must have been used otherwise than in the business transactions of the house, and as Geronimo himself told the Signor Turchi that he had lost a considerable amount at play, I am forced in spite of myself to admit the painful truth. Ten thousand crowns! Can neither virtue nor fidelity be found upon earth? A child whom I treated as my own son, whom I loved with blind affection, and over whose welfare I would have watched as long as I lived. And this is the return for all my love! Ah! signor, this ingratitude is like a dagger in my heart."

Mr. Van de Werve gazed abstractedly as if in deep thought. Then he said, seriously:

"You are truly unhappy, signor, and I commiserate your sorrow. How can it be possible? All is deceit and perfidy. Geronimo seemed the soul of virtue and loyalty; he lived with so much economy and conducted himself so honorably, that to those who knew him not he might have appeared either a poor man or a precocious miser. And this tranquil, modest, prudent young man loses at the gaming-table ten thousand crowns, the property of his benefactor! His laudable course of conduct was but a base hypocrisy!"

"And nevertheless," murmured the old Deodati, "my unfortunate nephew had a pure and loving heart! Might not his blindness have been the effect of one solitary and momentary error? Perhaps so. Man sometimes meets fatal temptations which attract him irresistibly, but to which he yields only once in his life."

"Why then did he fly, and thus acknowledge his guilt? No, signor, no excuse can palliate such misdeeds. I burn with indignation at the thought that such signal favors have met with such cold and base ingratitude. The idea of your affliction restrains me from speaking of the outrage done my daughter. Fortunately, the reputation and social position of my family is such as to screen it from the consequences of such an act. But, signor, I hope you will agree with me that there can no longer be a question of an alliance between my daughter and your nephew. He may return and obtain your pardon, but that will not change my determination. From this day forward the Signor Geronimo is as a stranger whom we have never known."

Deodati regarded the irritated nobleman with tearful eyes, and seemed to deprecate the inflexible decree.

Mr. Van de Werve took his hand, and said in a calmer manner:

"Be reasonable, signor, and do not let yourself be blinded by affection. What a dishonor to my name, were I to permit a man with so tarnished a reputation to enter my family! Could I confide the happiness of my good and noble child to one who was not withdrawn from a culpable love of play by life-long benefits? Could I accept as my son a man whom I could not esteem, whom on the contrary I would despise for his ingratitude to you? Acknowledge with me that such a union is impossible, and let us talk no more of it. Be still my friend, however, as long as you remain at Antwerp."

The merchant shook his head, and after a few moments' silence, he replied:

"Alas! I ought to admit that there is no hope of realizing this honorable alliance. What happiness Geronimo has staked on the cast of a die! I thank you, Mr. Van de Werve, for your proffered friendship, but I shall not remain at Antwerp. To-day I shall beg Signor Turchi to settle up the affairs of the house in this city. Now that I have no one in the world to care for, none for whom to work and amass money, I shall retire from commerce. I have ordered the Il Salvatore to be provisioned, and I shall set sail by the first favorable wind."

"You are right, signor. By returning to your own beautiful country, you will the sooner forget this misfortune."

"God knows when I will revisit my country!" replied the old man.

"Are you not going to Italy?" demanded Mr. Van de Werve.

"No, sir; but to England."

"In search of your nephew? Signor Turchi led us to suppose that he had sought refuge in that island. I admire your unbounded love for a man so little deserving of it; but, signor, you require rest. Follow my advice: go to Italy, and do not shorten your life by the sorrows which may await you in England."

"The advice is no doubt good," replied Deodati; "but I cannot follow it. However guilty he may be, Geronimo is the only son of my deceased brother, whom I promised on his death-bed to watch over his child as if he were my own. Were I to abandon Geronimo entirely, he might be pushed by want and misery into the path of vice, perhaps of infamy. I will fulfil my duty to the last. If I love him less than formerly, at least I will save him from utter ruin."

"What generosity!" exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve, in admiration. "You travel about in search of your nephew; you endanger your health. I foresee that he has but to speak to obtain pardon. And this great sacrifice, this magnanimous affection meets with such a return! It is frightful!"

"No, sir," replied Deodati, "I will not pardon Geronimo. He will never be the same to me. Should I find him, or should he return to me, I will give him an income sufficient to keep him from want; that being done, I shall renounce the world and retire into a cloister, to await there in solitude and peace the time when it may please God to call me to himself."

Mr. Van de Werve heard the street-door open, and said eagerly to the old merchant:

"Signor, my daughter is at church and may return at any moment. I beg you not to speak of these things in her presence. Since the disappearance of Geronimo, she does nothing but weep and pray; no consideration alleviates her sorrow, nothing consoles her. If she were suddenly to lose all hope, it might cause her death. Heavens! Signor Turchi, what has happened to him?"

He arose hastily and regarded in astonishment Simon Turchi, who entered and attempted to speak, but the words seemed to die upon his lips; for he stood trembling in the centre of the room, uttering unintelligible sounds. He was pale as death.

Deodati arose also, and looked inquiringly at Turchi.

The latter said, hurriedly:

"I went to the house of the bailiff; he was not at home. He has been sent for, and he will be here immediately with his officers to accompany me to my garden. Oh! I have terrible news to communicate; but my mind wanders, I am losing my senses. I can tell nothing, particularly to you, Signor Deodati. Unhappy old man! Why did God reserve such a trial for your old age?"

"Another misfortune? Speak, Simon, speak," said Deodati, in suppliant tones, and trembling from anxiety.

Turchi fell, as if from exhaustion, upon a chair, and said, in a voice broken by sobs:

"No, signor, ask me nothing; I could not break your heart by such stunning tidings. Alas! alas! who anticipated such a misfortune? My unhappy friend! my poor Geronimo!"

A torrent of tears fell from his eyes, and while Deodati and Mr. Van de Werve begged him to tell the cause of big extraordinary emotion, he stammered:

"Oh! let me be silent; despair tortures my heart. I can tell no one but the bailiff; he will soon be here. If I could but doubt! But no, it is too true; there is no more hope! May the God of mercy receive his poor soul into heaven!"

"Of whom do you speak?" exclaimed Deodati. "His soul? Whose soul? Geronimo's?"

Steps were heard in the vestibule. Simon Turchi went to the door, and said:

"Here is the bailiff! He will know the secret which is breaking my heart."

The bailiff entered the room, looked around in surprise, and at last said to Simon Turchi, who continued to talk confusedly:

"You have sent for me in all haste, in order to make a terrible revelation; I am here with my officers. Have you discovered Geronimo's assassins? Speak, Simon, and tell us what you know."

"So horrible is this secret, messire, that my tongue refuses to tell it. Ah! if I could forever—"

"Calm yourself, signor," said the bailiff, with perfect self-possession. "What have you learned?"

"But—but I must be alone with you. The news I have to communicate must not be revealed before Signor Deodati."

The old man said, with tearful eyes:

"You are cruel, Signor Simon! What could you say more terrible? You speak of Geronimo's soul; you announce his death, and yet you leave me in this horrible doubt. Speak, I conjure you."

All that Simon Turchi had said was only a deception practised upon his auditors, in order to make them believe that grief had affected his mind, and to prepare the way for his revelation.

At last he appeared to yield to necessity, and said:

"God grant that the frightful news may not afflict you as it did me! Listen! you know that two days ago my servant Julio left my service because I severely reproved his irregularities. This disquieted me, because I had noticed that he was pursued by some secret remorse. Just now, hardly a half hour ago, I left my residence, and was going towards the Dominican church to pray for my poor friend. On the way I thought of my servant Julio, and feared that in his despair he might have taken his life. When I was near the bridge, I heard my own name timidly pronounced. I turned and saw Julio. I commenced to reproach him with his absence, but putting his finger on his lips, he whispered:

"'Signor, I beg you to follow me; I have a secret to reveal to you.'

"His manner and tone of voice were so peculiar that I accompanied him to a retired spot. His revelation caused me such intense grief that I could hardly stand, and I was obliged to support myself against the wall as I received the confession of the penitent assassin."

A cry of horror escaped Deodati. Eager to hear the remainder, Mr. Van de Werve gazed fixedly upon the narrator. The bailiff was more calm—he listened attentively and nodded his head, as if he foresaw the conclusion of Turchi's narrative.

"I hardly dare continue," he said. "My soul revolts—but I must disregard my feelings," and in a more tranquil manner, he resumed:

"Shuddering with horror, I heard Julio say:

"'Master, I have committed a frightful murder. Remorse pursues me as a malediction from God. I shall put an end to my guilty life. In an hour I shall be in eternal torments, but I wish the body of my victim to be buried in holy ground. Go to your pavilion. In the lowest cellar, at the extremity of the subterranean passage, you will find the corpse of Signor Geronimo buried.'"

Tears fell fast from the eyes of Signor Deodati, and sobs convulsed his frame.

Turchi continued:

"'Signor Geronimo!' I exclaimed, in terror. 'Have you killed my poor friend?'

"'Yes, I put to death Signor Geronimo. I needed money to spend at the taverns, and you would not give it to me. I killed him in order to get the money he might have about him. Adieu! This very day all will be over with me.' Before I had sufficiently recovered from the shock to think of seizing Julio, he had disappeared. Probably, to-day—"

"Heavens!" exclaimed Simon Turchi, "I hear Miss Van de Werve."

"For the love of God, not a word in her presence," said Mr. Van de Werve.

Mary entered the room, looking around anxiously. She had seen the officers at the door, and she seemed to inquire of her father the cause of their presence.

She remarked her father's pallor and embarrassment. Simon Turchi looked down, as if in despair. Deodati covered his face with his hands.

A cry of anguish escaped the young girl, and she glanced in turns at her father, Deodati, Turchi, and the bailiff; but they each seemed anxious to avoid her eye.

"Go to your room, Mary," said Mr. Van de Werve.

"Give me this proof of affection. Ask nothing."

The young girl, struck by these evidences of some misfortune, ran to her father and exclaimed, joining her hands:

"Speak, father, and tell me what has happened. Leave me not in this terrible suspense. Tell me that they have not found Geronimo's dead body. Alas! he is dead! Is it not so?"

Throwing her arms around her father's neck, she wept bitterly, conjuring him to tell her the cause of their emotion.

Without giving her any explanation, Mr. Van de Werve attempted to lead his daughter out of the room; but she, like one crazed by grief, released her hand from her father's, fell upon her knees before Turchi, and exclaimed:

"By the love you bore him, signor, take pity on me and tell me what has happened to him. Let me not leave the room under the frightful conviction that he is dead!"

Turchi remained silent, gazing upon her with an expression of profound sadness.

"You, too, are implacable, inexorable!" she said, rising.

"But you, at least—his uncle, his father—will be more merciful."

She ran to the weeping merchant, gently forced his hands from his face, and conjured him, in piteous accents, to give her some information which would relieve the torturing suspense.

The old Deodati, still weeping, threw his arms around her neck, and murmured:

"God bless you, my child, for your love. Let us pray for him!"

Mr. Van de Werve had left the room to call Petronilla. He returned with her, and said to his daughter:

"Mary, go with your duenna. You must not remain here longer."

The young girl seemed not to hear her father's words, for she was immovable as if petrified by grief.

He added, in an impatient, severe tone:

"Mary, leave the room. I wish it; I command it. Obey me."

She arose and walked slowly towards the door. Tears flowed down her cheeks; she supported her trembling limbs by leaning on the arm of her duenna. Mr. Van de Werve feared she would lose consciousness before reaching her own apartment.

All, with the exception of the perfidious Turchi, were moved by compassion for the unhappy young girl.

As the duenna opened the door to let her mistress pass out, strange sounds were heard in the vestibule.

Mary started, and stepped back into the room, as though in presence of some apparition.

"It is his ghost, his spirit," she exclaimed, "arisen from the grave to demand vengeance upon his murderers!"

She gazed with intense emotion, then added, in accents of the wildest joy:

"He smiles upon me; it is himself! He lives! It is Geronimo!"

Pronouncing this cherished name, she fell insensible in the arms of her attendant, who, assisted by the bailiff, carried her to an armchair.

Signor Geronimo entered. His face was as pale and fleshless as that of a skeleton. The wound he had received in his neck appeared like a large spot of clotted blood—his garments were disordered, soiled, and blood stained. He seemed really a spectre just arisen from the tomb.

As soon as Turchi recognized his victim, he recoiled, uttering a cry of terror; and imagining that God had permitted a miracle in order to punish his crime, he extended his trembling hands to Geronimo, as if to implore pardon.

The young man cast upon him a look of disgust and contempt, and exclaimed:

"You here, assassin? Tremble, for the Supreme Judge will demand of you an account of my blood and of Julio's death."

A murmur of surprise and terror ran through the room; all eyes were fixed on Simon Turchi, who seemed crushed by Geronimo's words.

Having thus addressed Turchi, Geronimo rushed into his uncle's arms and embraced him in a transport of joy.

"Oh, unexpected happiness!" he exclaimed. "It is permitted me to see my uncle again in this world! I know you have suffered; you have suffered as a father deprived of his only child! No more sorrow now. I will repay you for your tender affection; I will love you; I will show my gratitude; I will venerate you. Ah! bless the God of mercy, who has saved me from the fangs of that tiger thirsting for my blood! But Mary, where is Mary? Ah! there she is! My beloved friend, what has happened?"

He ran to the insensible young girl, knelt before her, and endeavored to recall her to consciousness by every endearing epithet.

In the meantime Mr. Van de Werve aided the duenna in her exertions to restore animation. Taking advantage of this, Simon Turchi walked towards the door with the intention of making his escape; but the bailiff discovering his design, drew his sword and placed himself in the doorway.

Then Simon Turchi understood the fate awaiting him. He bowed his head and covered his face with his hands. He trembled in every limb, and his breast heaved with sighs of anguish. Every expectation of escape by flight, or by making an appeal for pardon, vanished as he beheld the indignant expression of the bailiff.

Mary at last recovered from the faint into which she had fallen. She looked around her in surprise, as if ignorant of what had happened; but when Geronimo's voice fell in joyous accents on her ear, a bright smile irradiated her countenance, and she exclaimed:

"It is not a dream! He lives! I see him once more! Geronimo! Geronimo!"

The young noble was too overpowered to do more than call the name of his beloved.

Only a few minutes had elapsed since Geronimo's entrance; all were too much moved to express their surprise in words. But the bailiff resolved to put an end to this harrowing scene by the performance of a painful duty.

He said, in an imperative manner:

"Signor Geronimo, be pleased to interrupt for a moment the expression of your happiness. By the authority of the law I ask you what has happened, and why you stigmatize the Signor Turchi as an assassin. Approach, and obey my order."

Turchi, foreseeing that his frightful crime was about to be revealed, writhed convulsively and was covered with shame and confusion. He dared not look upon his accuser.

"Declare the truth," ordered the bailiff.

"Five or six weeks ago," said Geronimo, "Simon Turchi told me that unforeseen circumstances made it an imperative necessity for him to raise the sum of ten thousand crowns, adding that if he did not succeed in obtaining it immediately, the credit of his house would be gone, and that he himself would be irretrievably ruined. He needed the sum, he said, only for one month. I lent him the ton thousand crowns, and at his earnest solicitation, in order to conceal the knowledge of this loan from the clerks, I made no entry upon the books of the transaction, but was satisfied with an acknowledgment in writing of the debt."

Old Deodati made an exclamation of joy, ran to his nephew, and embraced him affectionately.

"God be praised! Dear Geronimo, you restore me to life. That wicked man tried to persuade me that you had lost ten thousand crowns at play. You were too virtuous, too grateful for that, my beloved boy!"

"Observe the respect due the law, Signor Deodati. Continue your statement, Signor Geronimo."

"What an odious falsehood!" said the young man.

Then turning to the bailiff, he continued:

"When we last met in this house, Signor Turchi told me that a foreign merchant, who wished to remain unknown, would repay me the ten thousand crowns. I was to go to his country-house alone, and secretly to return the note I held, and receive reliable bills of exchange upon Italy. When I went, Julio, Simon Turchi's servant, pushed me into a chair prepared as a trap, in which my body was caught and held immovable by steel springs. Then Simon entered with a dagger in his hand; he took from me the note, and destroyed it in my presence. He attempted to stab me in the breast, but the blow was warded off by a copper amulet which I wore around my neck. I then received in my neck what I considered a mortal wound; I felt my blood flowing freely, and I bade, as I supposed, an eternal adieu to life."

Old Deodati, without being aware of it, had drawn his sword from the scabbard as if he were about to pierce Turchi to the heart; but he was restrained by a look of severity from the bailiff, although he continued playing with the hilt, and muttering in an undertone menaces against the murderer.

"I awoke to consciousness," continued Geronimo, "in a dark dungeon; I was lying beside a grave which had been dug to receive my remains. When Julio returned to bury my corpse, he found me living. He was about to kill me, but he recognized the amulet I wore around my neck, and I was saved. The old blind woman who gave me the amulet as a recompense for delivering her from the hands of the Moslems was Julio's mother. Last night Signor Turchi gave poisoned wine to Julio, who died in my arms, declaring to me that Signor Turchi hired Bufferio to assassinate me. I labored for hours before I succeeded in obtaining egress from the garden. Now behold me saved from a frightful death through the miraculous protection of God, and restored to all that is dear to me on earth!"

The bailiff's voice was heard, issuing his commands, in the vestibule. Turchi comprehended the order. He cast himself on his knees, extended his hands, and weeping, cried out:

"Oh! Messire Van Schoonhoven,—Geronimo,—I have been guilty of a frightful crime. I deserve your hatred, your contempt and death; but have pity on me! Spare me the shame of the scaffold; do not cover my family with eternal infamy. Exile me to the ends of the earth; but pardon, pardon, deliver me not to the executioner!"

Five officers of justice appeared at the door.

"What are your commands?" asked the chief.

"Bind the signor's hands behind his back!"

"Heavens! bind my hands like a thief!" exclaimed Turchi.

"Bind the hands of a nobleman?" repeated the chief in surprise.

"Execute my order immediately! This nobleman is an infamous robber and a cowardly assassin. Cast him in the deepest dungeon; he shall pay the penalty of his crime upon the scaffold."

The command was promptly obeyed, and Turchi, in spite of his resistance, was dragged from the room followed by the bailiff.

Mary and Geronimo wept with joy. Deodati claimed their attention saying:

"My dear children, let us fulfil a sacred duty of gratitude. God has so visibly protected innocence that the feeling of His presence in our midst overpowers me. Your hopes will become a reality. Let us pray!"

He knelt before the crucifix, bowed his head and joined his hands.

Geronimo and Mary knelt beside the old man, Mr. Van de Werve behind them.

For a long time they lifted their grateful hearts in thanksgiving to the God of goodness.



CHAPTER XIII.

MARY VAN DE WERVE'S (NOW MADAME GERONIMO DEODATI) DEPARTURE FOR ITALY—THE PUNISHMENT OF SIMON TURCHI.

It was six o'clock in the morning.

The height of the sun indicated that the warm season of summer had replaced the mild month of May. It was apparently a festival day at Antwerp, for through all the gates people poured from the surrounding country into the city. The streets were filled with persons of all ages, who, talking and laughing, hastened to the centre of the city, as though they anticipated some magnificent spectacle.

Before Mr. Van de Werve's residence was a compact mass of citizens who seemed impatient at the delay. Through a sentiment of respect, they were perfectly quiet, speaking in very low tones, and making way to afford a passage through the crowd every time that a cavalier or any notable personage presented himself for admission into the house.

The attraction to the centre of the city must have been very powerful, for the greater part of those who passed neither stopped nor turned their heads. Some approached, and learning upon inquiry as to the cause of the gathering, that Miss Van de Werve was about to leave for Italy, they immediately resumed their walk, as if the sight of this departure were no equivalent to the imposing spectacle they were going to witness. A few, however, remained in order to discover the real object of so large a concourse of people.

An old gray-headed peasant, after having listened to the conversation going on among the peasants, recognized in the crowd a man from his own village, who had been residing for some time in the city, near the church of Saint James, and who consequently, he thought, must be better informed than the others in regard to Miss Van de Werve.

He elbowed his way through the crowd until he reached his friend, struck him on the shoulder, and said:

"What is going on here, Master John, to collect such an assembly? I heard some one say that Miss Van de Werve was about to leave for Italy."

"Ah! Master Stephen," said the other, "call her Madame Geronimo Deodati."

"Is she married?"

"One would say, Master Stephen, that our village is at the other end of the world. Even the children of Antwerp bless this marriage as a striking proof of God's justice."

"I did hear, friend John, that God had visibly avenged virtue and punished crime. The assassin dies by a frightful death, and the victim becomes the husband of the noblest and wealthiest young lady in the marquisate. Do you know her, Master John?"

"Do I know her? She passes my house twice every day in going to church. I furnish the family with bread, and I have frequent opportunities of speaking with this amiable young lady."

"I would like to see her," said the old man, "but if I wait, I shall arrive too late at the public square."

"You need not fear," replied Master John. "The executioner's car will not leave the prison for an hour to come."

The peasant hesitated as to what he should do.

"Are you sure that the young lady will leave at once?"

"Immediately, Master Stephen. Mr. Van de Werve urges the departure—he wishes to be out of the city before the executioner commences his work."

"Why," said the peasant, "did they wait until to-day? In their place I would have gone long ago."

"Ah!" replied Master John, "here is another evidence of God's intervention in these terrible affairs. The vessel which bears them to Italy has been ready to sail for a week. During all that time the wind blew constantly from the south-west; it changed to the east only last night, so that their departure before was impossible. But the tide is high now and will commence to ebb at the very hour fixed for the death of the assassin. You see that God himself willed Mr. Van de Werve to remain here until his vengeance was accomplished."

"Does she go to Italy to reside?"

"Oh, no; she only goes on a wedding trip. She will return in the course of a year, when the impression of the perfidy and cruelty of Simon Turchi will be less painful. Back, back, Master Stephen, they are coming!"

From the crowd arose a joyous shout. Each was anxious to approach Madame Deodati. Those who did not know her desired to see the noble young woman whose name was so painfully connected with the bloody history of Simon Turchi, and who was esteemed a model of pure virtue, fervent piety, and ideal beauty. The neighbors and those who had the honor of knowing her collected in order to salute her, to bid her a respectful and cordial adieu, and to wish her a happy voyage.

Mary Van de Werve, now Madame Geronimo Deodati, appeared at the door accompanied by her husband. As soon as the people perceived her, loud and long acclamations greeted her; they waved their caps, clapped their hands, rent the air with their cries of joy, and strove to obtain a glance of the angelic features of the beautiful lady and the noble countenance of her husband, who had been so miraculously preserved, by the providence of God, from the hands of his cruel enemy, Simon Turchi.

Mr. Van de Werve walked by his daughter's side; the old Deodati was near his beloved nephew Geronimo. Then followed Mary's two married brothers and a large number of her father's near relatives and friends, as well as many Italians, Portuguese, and Spaniards, who wished to escort Geronimo to the ship.

When Mary heard the benedictions and joyous shouts of the people, and saw all eyes fixed upon her with looks of love, the blood mantled to her cheeks, and she modestly cast down her eyes. But immediately raising them, she saluted the crowd as a mark of her gratitude for their kindness. The multitude, at a sign from Mr. Van de Werve, opened a passage for the party, and they proceeded to the Scheldt amid acclamations testifying the love and respect they inspired. Their drive resembled a triumphal procession. The old Deodati was deeply moved. He seemed rejuvenated. A sweet smile was upon his lips, and he looked proudly upon Geronimo. Thus full of the thought of their future happiness, they reached the dock-yard. In the middle of the Scheldt was the Il Salvatore, decked with flags and rocking upon the waves as if conscious of the precious treasure about to be confided to it.

A part of the sailors were occupied in unmooring the vessel; even the harsh grating sound of the capstan could be heard on the wharf. The rest of the crew manned the masts, and they waved their caps in the air, shouting:

"Benvenuto! benvenuto! Viva, viva la nostra signora!"

At the same time the sound of five or six cannon from the Il Salvatore boomed over the waters, prolonged by the echoes from either side as it floated down the river. The multitude replied by three cheers, and the last reverberation of the cannon was lost in the vivas of those on the shore and ships.

In the meantime parents and friends were bidding adieu. Many tears were shed, and it was with tearful eyes that Mary Van de Werve received upon her brow her brothers' kiss.

The Il Salvatore weighed anchor; the sails caught the wind, and the vessel floated majestically down the river with the tide.

Mr. Van de Werve, Deodati, and their two happy children, entered the bark which awaited them. Petronilla seated herself beside her mistress. They exchanged a last adieu, and the eight oars fell simultaneously in the water. The bark, under the strokes of the robust oarsmen, cut the waves in a rapid course.

At this moment Geronimo's eyes were filled with tears. Lifting his eyes to heaven, he said:

"Blessed be Thou, my God, for all the sufferings Thou hast sent me; blessed be Thou for Thy infinite goodness. I thank Thee for the wife it has pleased Thee to give me; she will be my companion in my much loved country. A thousand thanks for all Thy benefits!"

The bark had reached the galley. A ladder was lowered, and, aided by the sailors, the party ascended the deck. The pilot gave the signal, the sails were unfurled, the ship rocked for a moment as if courting the breeze, and then it rapidly cleaved the waves.

The cannon again boomed from the Il Salvatore, and again the acclamations of the crowd rent the air.

* * * * *

The sounds had hardly died away when the spectators, as if impelled by one thought, immediately retired, and made all speed to reach the central part of the city.

The crowd which left the wharf so precipitately soon arrived at the grand square, but they found it already occupied by so compact a mass of human beings, that it was impossible for them to penetrate it. As far as the eye could reach, there was a sea of heads; all the windows were crowded with women and even children; the roofs swarmed with curious spectators; the iron balustrades seemed to bend under the weight of the children who had climbed upon them.

A solemn silence reigned in the midst of the vast multitude. Not a sound was heard save the slow and mournful tolling of the death-bell, and at intervals a scream so piercing, so frightful, that those who listened to it turned pale and trembled. Every eye was fixed upon a particular spot, whence clouds of smoke curled in the air, and from which escaped the cries of distress.

What passed that day on the grand square of Antwerp is thus related by Matthew Bandello, Bishop of Agen, who lived at that period, and who wrote from the testimony of an eye-witness:

* * * * *

"Upon the appointed day, Simon Turchi was enclosed in the same chair and driven on a wagon through the streets of Antwerp, the good priest accompanying him and exhorting him. When they reached the grand square, the chair was removed from the wagon. The executioners lighted a slow fire, which they kept alive with wood, but in such a manner that the flames should not rise too high, but sufficed to roast slowly the unhappy Turchi. The priest remained as near to him as the heat permitted, and frequently said to him:

"'Simon, this is the hour for repentance!'

"And Simon, as long as he could speak, replied:

"'Yes, father.'"

* * * * *

Simon Turchi evinced great repentance and much patience, and he accepted with resignation the painful and infamous death to which he was condemned. When it was certain that he was dead, his body, partially consumed, was conveyed outside the city gates and attached to a stake by an iron chain. The dagger with which he had stabbed Geronimo was thrust into his side. The stake was so placed on the public road that it could be seen by all who passed, in order that the punishment inflicted for murder might serve as a warning to others, and prevent the commission of infamous crimes.



THE END.



ENDNOTES

[Footnote 1: "All the foreign merchants who resided at Bruges, with the exception of a few Spaniards, established themselves here about the year 1516, to the great disadvantage of Bruges and to the advantage of Antwerp."—Le Guicciardini, Description of the Low Countries. Arnhem, 1617, p. 113.]

[Footnote 2: C. Schibanius, in his Origines Antwerpien Sum, says that he has often seen in the Scheldt twenty-five hundred vessels, many of which were detained at anchor for two or three weeks before being able to approach the wharf.]

[Footnote 3: The stables, and coach-houses used by this company for transportation still exist at Antwerp. Although they are now occupied as barracks, they preserve their original name—Hessenhaus.]

[Footnote 4: See the statistics of population given by Schibanius in the History of Antwerp, by Mertens & Torfo, Part IV., ch. v.]

[Footnote 5: The inhabitants of Antwerp are experienced and skilled in commercial affairs, and although they may not have left their own country the greater part of them, even the women, can speak four, five, and sometimes seven different languages.]

[Footnote 6: "The nobles of Netherlands do not engage in commerce like the Italian noblemen from Venice, Florence, Genoa, and Lucca."—L. Guiccardini, Description of the Low Countries, p. 140.]

[Footnote 7: "Two well-known Italian merchants, both of noble birth, natives of Lucca, who were great friends." Van Mertens, History of the Low Countries, Vol. I.]

[Footnote 8: The bailiff (schoat) was the representative of the prince in the prosecution of crimes. He alone, and his agents by his orders, could make arrests, except in cases of flagrant crime or of persons lying in wait. This high functionary was also called the margrave, because the margrave of the Low Countries was, in virtue of that office, the bailiff of the city of Antwerp.]

[Footnote 9: "It is estimated that three thousand new houses were either erected by himself, or by others through his assistance."—Mertens & Torfo, History of Antwerp.]

[Footnote 10: This church was demolished at the commencement of this century. The spot upon which it stood is now called the "Plain of Saint Walburga."]

[Footnote 11: In the History of Antwerp, by Mertens & Torfo, Part IV., chapter iii., is found a view of the city, from the banks of the Scheldt, as it was in 1556, and details concerning the principal edifices.]

[Footnote 12: "Geronimo went to Simon and demanded payment of the sum lent, and for which he held a note. Turchi made various excuses, and put off payment from day to day."—Matteo Bandello.]

[Footnote 13: "A fierce desire of vengeance took possession of Simon, and he sought to kill Geronimo."—Matieo Bandello.]

[Footnote 14: A measure of four pints.]

[Footnote 15: "One night, when passing through the streets, he received from the hands of an enemy an ugly wound in the face. He suspected Geronimo of having inflicted it; in which he was mistaken, for the author of the attack was afterwards discovered."—Matteo Bandello.]

[Footnote 16: "After Simon Turchi had determined to revenge himself, and after long consideration, he ordered a large wooden arm-chair, to which were attached two iron bars, so arranged that whoever should sit down in it would be caught by the legs below the knees, and would be unable to move."—Van Meteren, History of the Low Countries.]

[Footnote 17: "Geronimo, a merchant from Lyons desires to see you, but as he does not wish to be known at Antwerp now, he is concealed in my garden. He begs that you will meet him there."—Matteo Bandello.]

[Footnote 18: "This chair being made, he told one of his servants, named Julio, who was proscribed in Italy, and under sentence of death."—Van Meteren, History of the Low Countries.]

[Footnote 19: "And the said Julio pushed Geronimo into a large arm-chair, which sprang and closed."—Origin and Genealogy of the Dukes and Duchesses of Brabant. Antwerp, 1565; p. 308.]

[Footnote 20: "In the cellar ... in a grave which had been prepared by the said Julio to bury Geronimo after the commission of the murder."—Origin and Genealogy of the Dukes and Duchesses of Brabant.]

[Footnote 21: Order and Proclamation of Messire Van Schoonhoven, bailiff, and of the Burgomaster, Constables, and Council of the city of Antwerp:

"It having come to the knowledge of the bailiff, burgomaster, and constables of this city that Geronimo Deodati, a merchant of Lucca, went out yesterday afternoon, about four o'clock, from his residence in this city, near the Convent of the Dominicans, and that he was seen for the last time beyond the Square of Meir, and since then he has not been heard of, and we know not what has become of him, so that there is great suspicion that the said Geronimo has been maltreated, or even put to death; therefore, the magistrates of the same city do proclaim that he who first will give information as to what has become of the said Geronimo, will receive the sum of three hundred florins."—Extract from the "Book of Laws of the City of Antwerp."]

[Footnote 22: "The bailiff said that the magistrates had determined to search all the stables, cellars, and gardens, to discover whether the ground in any of these places had been recently dug."—E. Van Meteren, History of the Low Countries.]

[Footnote 23: "Simon Turchi was known to be a perverse and immoral man; in a word, he was a compound of every vice and every evil inclination."—Matteo Bandello.]

[Footnote 24: "Go and do what I have commanded you. Disinter the body, take it on your shoulders and cast it into the sewer which is in the square where the three streets meet."—Simon Turchi.—Matteo Bandello.]

[Footnote 25: "I will send Bernardo to help you, and I will order him to obey you, whatever you may command. When you have thrown the body into the sewer, you can, by a quick movement, push Bernardo in also. The sewer is deep, and whoever falls into it is immediately drowned."—Matteo Bandello.]

[Footnote 26: "Simon Turchi begged Julio to take the crime upon himself."—Van Meteren, History of the Low Countries.]

THE END