"It is an impossible dream," he said, in reply to the remarks of Gualdro and Salustri, "that idea of all men fraternizing together in one common pig-sty of equality. Look at the differences of caste! Birth, breeding and education make of man that high-mettled, sensitive animal known as gentleman, and not all the socialistic theories in the world can force him down on the same level with the rough boor, whose flat nose and coarse features announce him as plebeian even before one hears the tone of his voice. We cannot help these things. I do not think we WOULD help them even if we could."

"You are quite right," said Ferrari. "You cannot put race-horses to draw the plow. I have always imagined that the first quarrel—the Cain and Abel affair—must have occurred through some difference of caste as well as jealousy—for instance, perhaps Abel was a negro and Cain a white man, or vice versa; which would account for the antipathy existing between the races to this day."

The Duke di Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders.

"That first quarrel," he said, "as related in the Bible, was exceedingly vulgar. It must have been a kind of prize-fight. Ce n'etait pas fin."

Gualdro laughed delightedly.

"So like you, Marina!" he exclaimed, "to say that! I sympathize with your sentiments! Fancy the butcher Abel piling up his reeking carcasses and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood Cain the green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other vegetable matter! What a spectacle! The gods of Olympus would have sickened at it! However, the Jewish Deity, or rather, the well-fed priest who represented him, showed his good taste in the matter; I myself prefer the smell of roast meat to the rather disagreeable odor of scorching vegetables!"

We laughed—and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity—

"Le diner de Monsieur le Conte est servi!"

I at once led the way to the banqueting-room—my guests followed gayly, talking and jesting among themselves. They were all in high good humor, none of them had as yet noticed the fatal blank caused by the absence of the brothers Respetti. I had—for the number of my guests was now thirteen instead of fifteen. Thirteen at table! I wondered if any of the company were superstitious? Ferrari was not, I knew—unless his nerves had been latterly shaken by witnessing the death of his uncle. At any rate, I resolved to say nothing that could attract the attention of my guests to the ill-omened circumstance; if any one should notice it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar superstitions. I myself was the one most affected by it—it had for me a curious and fatal significance. I was so occupied with the consideration of it that I scarcely attended to the words addressed to me by the Duke di Marina, who, walking beside me, seemed disposed to converse with more familiarity than was his usual custom. We reached the door of the dining-room; which at our approach was thrown wide open, and delicious strains of music met our ears as we entered. Low murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the gentlemen as they viewed the sumptuous scene before them. I pretended not to hear their eulogies, as I took my seat at the head of the table, with Guido Ferrari on my right and the Duke di Manna on my left. The music sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the company were seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young fresh voices broke forth into a Neapolitan "madrigale"—which as far as I can translate it ran as follows:

"Welcome the festal hour! Pour the red wine into cups of gold! Health to the men who are strong and bold! Welcome the festal hour! Waken the echoes with riotous mirth— Cease to remember the sorrows of earth In the joys of the festal hour! Wine is the monarch of laughter and light, Death himself shall be merry to-night! Hail to the festal hour!"

An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of the unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became general.

"By heaven!" exclaimed Ferrari, "if this Olympian carouse is meant as a welcome to me, amico, all I can say is that I do not deserve it. Why, it is more fit for the welcome of one king to his neighbor sovereign!"

"Ebbene!" I said. "Are there any better kings than honest men? Let us hope we are thus far worthy of each other's esteem."

He flashed a bright look of gratitude upon me and was silent, listening to the choice and complimentary phrases uttered by the Duke di Manna concerning the exquisite taste displayed in the arrangement of the table.

"You have no doubt traveled much in the East, conte," said this nobleman. "Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once read, called 'Vathek.'"

"Exactly '" exclaimed Guido "I think Oliva must be Vathek himself'"

"Scarcely!" I said, smiling coldly. "I lay no claim to supernatural experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me."

Antonio Biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked toward us and said modestly:

"I think you are right, conte. The beauties of nature and of humanity are so varied and profound that were it not for the inextinguishable longing after immortality which has been placed in every one of us, I think we should be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is."

"You speak like an artist and a man of even temperament," broke in the Marchese Gualdro, who had finished his soup quickly in order to be able to talk—talking being his chief delight. "For me, I am never contented. I never have enough of anything! That is my nature. When I see lovely flowers, I wish more of them—when I behold a fine sunset, I desire many more such sunsets—when I look upon a lovely woman—"

"You would have lovely women ad infinitum!" laughed the French Capitaine de Hamal. "En verite, Gualdro, you should have been a Turk!"

"And why not?" demanded Gualdro. "The Turks are very sensible people—they know how to make coffee better than we do. And what more fascinating than a harem? It must be like a fragrant hot-house, where one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily, sometimes a simple violet—sometimes—" "A thorn?" suggested Salustri.

"Well, perhaps!" laughed the Marchese. "Yet one would run the risk of that for the sake of a perfect rose."

Chevalier Mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the Legion d'Honneur, looked up—he was a thin man with keen eyes and a shrewd face which, though at a first glance appeared stern, could at the least provocation break up into a thousand little wrinkles of laughter.

"There is undoubtedly something entrainant about the idea," he observed, in his methodical way. "I have always fancied that marriage as we arrange it is a great mistake."

"And that is why you have never tried it?" queried Ferrari, looking amused.

"Certissimamente!" and the chevalier's grim countenance began to work with satirical humor. "I have resolved that I will never be bound over by the law to kiss only one woman. As matters stand, I can kiss them all if I like."

A shout of merriment and cries of "Oh! oh!" greeted this remark, which Ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part.

"All?" he said, with a dubious air. "You mean all except the married ones?"

The chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of comic severity.

"When I said ALL, I meant all," he returned—"the married ones in particular. They, poor things, need such attentions—and often invite them—why not? Their husbands have most likely ceased to be amorous after the first months of marriage."

I burst out laughing. "You are right, Mancini," I said; "and even if the husbands are fools enough to continue their gallantries they deserve to be duped—and they generally are! Come, amico.'" I added, turning to Ferrari, "those are your own sentiments—you have often declared them to me."

He smiled uncomfortably, and his brows contracted. I could easily perceive that he was annoyed. To change the tone of the conversation I gave a signal for the music to recommence, and instantly the melody of a slow, voluptuous Hungarian waltz-measure floated through the room. The dinner was now fairly on its way; the appetites of my guests were stimulated and tempted by the choicest and most savory viands, prepared with all the taste and intelligence a first rate chef can bestow on his work, and good wine flowed freely.

Vincenzo obediently following my instructions, stood behind my chair, and seldom moved except to refill Ferrari's glass, and occasionally to proffer some fresh vintage to the Duke di Marina. He, however, was an abstemious and careful man, and followed the good example shown by the wisest Italians, who never mix their wines. He remained faithful to the first beverage he had selected—a specially fine Chianti, of which he partook freely without its causing the slightest flush to appear on his pale aristocratic features. Its warm and mellow flavor did but brighten his eyes and loosen his tongue, inasmuch that he became almost as elegant a talker as the Marchese Gualdro. This latter, who scarce had a scudo to call his own, and who dined sumptuously every day at other people's expense for the sake of the pleasure his company afforded, was by this time entertaining every one near him by the most sparkling stories and witty pleasantries.

The merriment increased as the various courses were served; shouts of laughter frequently interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. Every now and then might be heard the smooth voice of Captain Freccia rolling out his favorite oaths with the sonority and expression of a primo tenore; sometimes the elegant French of the Marquis D'Avencourt, with his high, sing-song Parisian accent, rang out above the voices of the others; and again, the choice Tuscan of the poet Luziano Salustri rolled forth in melodious cadence as though he were chanting lines from Dante or Ariosto, instead of talking lightly on indifferent matters. I accepted my share in the universal hilarity, though I principally divided my conversation between Ferrari and the duke, paying to both, but specially to Ferrari, that absolute attention which is the greatest compliment a host can bestow on those whom he undertakes to entertain.

We had reached that stage of the banquet when the game was about to be served—the invisible choir of boys' voices had just completed an enchanting stornello with an accompaniment of mandolines—when a stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon the company—a pause—an ominous hush, as though some person supreme in authority had suddenly entered the room and commanded "Silence!" No one seemed disposed to speak or to move, the very footsteps of the waiters were muffled in the velvet pile of the carpets—no sound was heard but the measured plash of the fountain that played among the ferns and flowers. The moon, shining frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale green ray, like the extended arm of an appealing ghost, against one side of the velvet hangings—a spectral effect which was heightened by the contrast of the garish glitter of the waxen tapers. Each man looked at the other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow, though I moved my lips in an endeavor to speak and thus break the spell, I was at a loss, and could find no language suitable to the moment. Ferrari toyed with his wine-glass mechanically—the duke appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside his plate into little methodical patterns; the stillness seemed to last so long that it was like a suffocating heaviness in the air. Suddenly Vincenzo, in his office of chief butler, drew the cork of a champagne-bottle with a loud-sounding pop! We all started as though a pistol had been fired in our ears, and the Marchese Gualdro burst out laughing.

"Corpo di Baceo!" he cried. "At last you have awakened from sleep! Were you all struck dumb, amici, that you stared at the table-cloth so persistently and with such admirable gravity? May Saint Anthony and his pig preserve me, but for the time I fancied I was attending a banquet on the wrong side of the Styx, and that you, my present companions, were all dead men!"

"And that idea made YOU also hold your tongue, which is quite an unaccountable miracle in its way," laughed Luziano Salustri. "Have you never heard the pretty legend that attaches to such an occurrence as a sudden silence in the midst of high festivity? An angel enters, bestowing his benediction as he passes through."

"That story is more ancient than the church," said Chevalier Mancini. "It is an exploded theory—for we have ceased to believe in angels—we call them women instead."

"Bravo, mon vieux gaillard!" cried Captain de Hamal. "Your sentiments are the same as mine, with a very trifling difference. You believe women to be angels—I know them to be devils—mas il n'y agu'un pas entre es deux? We will not quarrel over a word—a votre sante, mon cher!"

And he drained his glass, nodding to Mancini, who followed his example.

"Perhaps," said the smooth, slow voice of Captain Freccia, "our silence was caused by the instinctive consciousness of something wrong with our party—a little inequality—which I dare say our noble host has not thought it worth while to mention."

Every head was turned in his direction. "What do you mean?" "What inequality?" "Explain yourself!" chorused several voices.

"Really it is a mere nothing," answered Freccia, lazily, as he surveyed with the admiring air of a gourmet the dainty portion of pheasant just placed before him. "I assure you, only the uneducated would care two scudi about such a circumstance. The excellent brothers Respetti are to blame—their absence to-night has caused—but why should I disturb your equanimity? I am not superstitious—ma, chi sa?—some of you may be."

"I see what you mean!" interrupted Salustri, quickly. "We are thirteen at table!"



CHAPTER XXIV.

At this announcement my guests looked furtively at each other, and I could see they were counting up the fatal number for themselves. They were undeniably clever, cultivated men of the world, but the superstitious element was in their blood, and all, with the exception perhaps of Freccia and the ever-cool Marquis D'Avencourt, were evidently rendered uneasy by the fact now discovered. On Ferrari it had a curious effect—he started violently and his face flushed. "Diabolo!" he muttered, under his breath, and seizing his never-empty glass, he swallowed its contents thirstily and quickly at one gulp as though attacked by fever, and pushed away his plate with a hand that trembled nervously. I, meanwhile, raised my voice and addressed my guests cheerfully!

"Our distinguished friend Salustri is perfectly right, gentlemen. I myself noticed the discrepancy in our number some time ago—but I knew that you were all advanced thinkers, who had long since liberated yourselves from the trammels of superstitious observances, which are the result of priestcraft, and are now left solely to the vulgar. Therefore I said nothing. The silly notion of any misfortune attending the number thirteen arose, as you are aware, out of the story of the Last Supper, and children and women may possibly still give credence to the fancy that one out of thirteen at table must be a traitor and doomed to die. But we men know better. None of us here to-night have reason to put ourselves in the position of a Christ or a Judas—we are all good friends and boon companions, and I cannot suppose for a moment that this little cloud can possibly affect you seriously. Remember also that this is Christmas-eve, and that according to the world's greatest poet, Shakespeare,

"'Then no planet strikes, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallowed and so gracious is the time.'"

A murmur of applause and a hearty clapping of hands rewarded this little speech, and the Marchese Gualdro sprung to his feet—

"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "we are not a party of terrified old women to shiver on the edge of a worn-out omen! Fill your glasses, signori! More wine, garcon! Per bacco! if Judas Iscariot himself had such a feast as ours before he hanged himself, he was not much to be pitied! Hola amici! To the health of our noble host, Conte Cesare Oliva!"

He waved his glass in the air three times—every one followed his example and drank the toast with enthusiasm. I bowed my thanks and acknowledgments—and the superstitious dread which at first bad undoubtedly seized the company passed away quickly—the talking, the merriment, and laughter were resumed, and soon it seemed as though the untoward circumstance were entirely forgotten. Only Guido Ferrari seemed still somewhat disturbed in his mind—but even his uneasiness dissipated itself by degrees, and heated by the quantity of wine he had taken, he began to talk with boastful braggartism of his many successful gallantries, and related his most questionable anecdotes in such a manner as to cause some haughty astonishment in the mind of the Duke di Marina, who eyed him from time to time with ill-disguised impatience that bordered on contempt. I, on the contrary, listened to everything he said with urbane courtesy—I humored him and drew him out as much as possible—I smiled complacently at his poor jokes and vulgar witticisms—and when he said something that was more than usually outrageous, I contented myself with a benevolent shake of my head, and the mild remark:

"Ah! young blood! young blood!" uttered in a bland sotto-voce.

The dessert was now served, and with it came the costly wines which I had ordered to be kept back till then. Priceless "Chateau Yquem," "Clos Vougeot," of the rarest vintages, choice "Valpulcello" and an exceedingly superb "Lacrima Cristi"—one after the other, these were tasted, criticised, and heartily appreciated. There was also a very unique brand of champagne costing nearly forty francs a bottle, which was sparkling and mellow to the palate, but fiery in quality. This particular beverage was so seductive in flavor that every one partook of it freely, with the result that the most discreet among the party now became the most uproarious. Antonio Biscardi, the quiet and unobtrusive painter, together with his fellow-student, Crispiano Dulci, usually the shyest of young men, suddenly grew excited, and uttered blatant nothings concerning their art. Captain Freccia argued the niceties of sword-play with the Marquis D'Avencourt, both speakers illustrating their various points by thrusting their dessert-knives skillfully into the pulpy bodies of the peaches they had on their plates. Luziano Salustri lay back at ease in his chair, his classic head reclining on the velvet cushions, and recited in low and measured tones one of his own poems, caring little or nothing whether his neighbors attended to him or not. The glib tongue of the Marchese Gualdro ran on smoothly and incessantly, though he frequently lost the thread of his anecdotes and became involved in a maze of contradictory assertions. The rather large nose of the Chevalier Mancini reddened visibly as he laughed joyously to himself at nothing in particular—in short, the table had become a glittering whirlpool of excitement and feverish folly, which at a mere touch, or word out of season, might rise to a raging storm of frothy dissension. The Duke di Marina and myself alone of all the company were composed as usual—he had resisted the champagne, and as for me, I had let all the splendid wines go past me, and had not taken more than two glasses of a mild Chianti.

I glanced keenly round the riotous board—I noted the flushed faces and rapid gesticulations of my guests, and listened to the Babel of conflicting tongues. I drew a long breath as I looked—I calculated that in two or three minutes at the very least I might throw down the trump card I had held so patiently in my hand all the evening.

I took a close observation of Ferrari. He had edged his chair a little away from mine, and was talking confidentially to his neighbor, Captain de Hamal—his utterance was low and thick, but yet I distinctly heard him enumerating in somewhat coarse language the exterior charms of a woman—what woman I did not stop to consider—the burning idea struck me that he was describing the physical perfections of my wife to this De Hamal, a mere spadaccino, for whom there was nothing sacred in heaven or earth. My blood rapidly heated itself to boiling point—to this day I remember how it throbbed in my temples, leaving my hands and feet icy cold. I rose in my seat, and tapped on the table to call for silence and attention—but for some time the noise of argument and the clatter of tongues were so great that I could not make myself heard. The duke endeavored to second my efforts, but in vain. At last Ferrari's notice was attracted—he turned round, and seizing a dessert knife beat with it on the table and on his own plate so noisily and persistently that the loud laughter and conversation ceased suddenly. The moment had come—I raised my head, fixed my spectacles more firmly over my eyes, and spoke in distinct and steady tones, first of all stealing a covert glance toward Ferrari. He had sunk back again lazily in his chair and was lighting a cigarette.

"My friends," I said, meeting with a smile the inquiring looks that were directed toward me, "I have presumed to interrupt your mirth for a moment, not to restrain it, but rather to give it a fresh impetus. I asked you all here to-night, as you know, to honor me by your presence and to give a welcome to our mutual friend, Signor Guido Ferrari." Here I was interrupted by a loud clapping of hands and ejaculations of approval, while Ferrari himself murmured affably between two puffs of his cigarette. "Tropp' onore, amico, tropp' onore!" I resumed, "This young and accomplished gentleman, who is, I believe, a favorite with you all, has been compelled through domestic affairs to absent himself from our circle for the past few weeks, and I think he must himself be aware how much we have missed his pleasant company. It will, however, be agreeable to you, as it has been for me, to know that he has returned to Naples a richer man than when he left it—that fortune has done him justice, and that with the possession of abundant wealth he is at last called upon to enjoy the reward due to his merits!"

Here there was more clapping of hands and exclamations of pleasure, while those who were seated near Ferrari raised their glasses and drank to his health with congratulations, all of which courtesies he acknowledged by a nonchalant, self-satisfied bow. I glanced at him again—how tranquil he looked!—reclining among the crimson cushions of his chair, a brimming glass of champagne beside him, the cigarette between his lips, and his handsome face slightly upturned, though his eyes rested half drowsily on the uncurtained window through which the Bay of Naples was seen glittering in the moonlight.

I continued: "It was, gentlemen, that you might welcome and congratulate Signor Ferrari as you have done, that I assembled you here to-night—or rather, let me say it was PARTLY the object of our present festivity—but there is yet another reason which I shall now have the pleasure of explaining to you—a reason which, as it concerns myself and my immediate happiness, will, I feel confident, secure your sympathy and good wishes."

This time every one was silent, intently following my words.

"What I am about to say," I went on, calmly, "may very possibly surprise you. I have been known to you as a man of few words, and, I fear, of abrupt and brusque manners"—cries of "No, no!" mingled with various complimentary assurances reached my ears from all sides of the table. I bowed with a gratified air, and when silence was restored—"At any rate you would not think me precisely the sort of man to take a lady's fancy." A look of wonder and curiosity was now exchanged among my guests. Ferrari took his cigarette out of his mouth and stared at me in blank astonishment.

"No," I went on, meditatively, "old as I am, and a half-blind invalid besides, it seems incredible that any woman should care to look at me more than twice en passant. But I have met—let me say with the Chevalier Mancini—an angel—who has found me not displeasing to her, and—in short—I am going to marry!"

There was a pause. Ferrari raised himself slightly from his reclining position and seemed about to speak, but apparently changing his mind he remained silent—his face had somewhat paled. The momentary hesitation among my guests passed quickly. All present, except Guido, broke out into a chorus of congratulations, mingled with good-humored jesting and laughter.

"Say farewell to jollity, conte!" cried Chevalier Mancini; "once drawn along by the rustling music of a woman's gown, no more such feasts as we have had to-night!"

And he shook his head with tipsy melancholy.

"By all the gods!" exclaimed Gualdro, "your news has surprised me! I should have thought you were the last man to give up liberty for the sake of a woman. ONE woman, too! Why, man, freedom could give you twenty!"

"Ah!" murmured Salustri, softly and sentimentally, "but the one perfect pearl—the one flawless diamond—"

"Bah! Salustri, caro mio, you are half asleep!" returned Gualdro. "'Tis the wine talks, not you. Thou art conquered by the bottle, amico. You, the darling of all the women in Naples, to talk of one! Buona notte, bambino!"

I still maintained my standing position, leaning my two hands on the table before me.

"What our worthy Gualdro says," I went on, "is perfectly true. I have been noted for my antipathy to the fair sex. I know it. But when one of the loveliest among women comes out of her way to tempt me—when she herself displays the matchless store of her countless fascinations for my attraction—when she honors me by special favors and makes me plainly aware that I am not too presumptuous in venturing to aspire to her hand in marriage—what can I do but accept with a good grace the fortune thrown to me by Providence? I should be the most ungrateful of men were I to refuse so precious a gift from Heaven, and I confess I feel no inclination to reject what I consider to be the certainty of happiness. I therefore ask you all to fill your glasses, and do me the favor to drink to the health and happiness of my future bride."

Gualdro sprung erect, his glass held high in the air; every man followed his example, Ferrari rose to his feet with some unsteadiness, while the hand that held his full champagne glass trembled.

The Duke di Marina, with a courteous gesture, addressed me: "You will, of course, honor us by disclosing the name of the fair lady whom we are prepared to toast with all befitting reverence?"

"I was about to ask the same question," said Ferrari, in hoarse accents—his lips were dry, and he appeared to have some difficulty in speaking. "Possibly we are not acquainted with her?"

"On the contrary," I returned, eying him steadily with a cool smile. "You all know her name well! Illustrissimi Signori!" and my voice rang out clearly—"to the health of my betrothed wife, the Contessa Romani!"

"Liar!" shouted Ferrari—and with all a madman's fury he dashed his brimming glass of champagne full in my face! In a second the wildest scene of confusion ensued. Every man left his place at table and surrounded us. I stood erect and perfectly calm—wiping with my handkerchief the little runlets of wine that dripped from my clothing—the glass had fallen at my feet, striking the table as it fell and splitting itself to atoms.

"Are you drunk or mad, Ferrari?" cried Captain de Hamal, seizing him by the arm—"do you know what you have done?"

Ferrari glared about him like a tiger at bay—his face was flushed and swollen like that of a man in apoplexy—the veins in his forehead stood out like knotted cords—his breath came and went hard as though he had been running. He turned his rolling eyes upon me. "Damn you!" he muttered through his clinched teeth—then suddenly raising his voice to a positive shriek, he cried, "I will have your blood if I have to tear your heart for it!"—and he made an effort to spring upon me. The Marquis D'Avencourt quietly caught his other arm and held it as in a vise.

"Not so fast, not so fast, mon cher" he said, coolly. "We are not murderers, we! What devil possesses you, that you offer such unwarrantable insult to our host?"

"Ask HIM!" replied Ferrari, fiercely, struggling to release himself from the grasp of the two Frenchmen—"he knows well enough! Ask HIM!"

All eyes were turned inquiringly upon me. I was silent.

"The noble conte is really not bound to give any explanation," remarked Captain Freccia—"even admitting he were able to do so."

"I assure you, my friends," I said, "I am ignorant of the cause of this fracas, except that this young gentleman had pretensions himself to the hand of the lady whose name affects him so seriously!"

For a moment I thought Ferrari would have choked.

"Pretensions—pretensions!" he gasped. "Gran Dio! Hear him!—hear the miserable scoundrel!"

"Ah, basta!" exclaimed Chevalier Mancini, scornfully—"Is that all? A mere bagatelle! Ferrari, you were wont to be more sensible! What! quarrel with an excellent friend for the sake of a woman who happens to prefer him to you! Ma che! Women are plentiful—friends are few."

"If," I resumed, still methodically wiping the stains of wine from my coat and vest—"if Signor Ferrari's extraordinary display of temper is a mere outcome of natural disappointment, I am willing to excuse it. He is young and hotblooded—let him apologize, and I shall freely pardon him."

"By my faith!" said the Duke di Marina with indignation, "such generosity is unheard of, conte! Permit me to remark that it is altogether exceptional, after such ungentlemanly conduct."

Ferrari looked from one to the other in silent fury. His face had grown pale as death. He wrenched himself from the grasp of D'Avencourt and De Hamal.

"Fools! let me go!" he said, savagely. "None of you are on my side—I see that!" He stepped to the table, poured out a glass of water and drank it off. He then turned and faced me—his head thrown back, his eyes blazing with wrath and pain.

"Liar!" he cried again, "double-faced accursed liar! You have stolen HER—you have fooled ME—but, by G-d, you shall pay for it with your life!"

"Willingly!" I said, with a mocking smile, restraining by a gesture the hasty exclamations of those around me who resented this fresh attack—"most willingly, caro signor! But excuse me if I fail to see wherein you consider yourself wronged. The lady who is now my fiancee has not the slightest affection for you—she told me so herself. Had she entertained any such feelings I might have withdrawn my proposals—but as matters stand, what harm have I done you?"

A chorus of indignant voices interrupted me. "Shame on you, Ferrari!" cried Gualdro. "The count speaks like a gentleman and a man of honor. Were I in his place you should have had no word of explanation whatever. I would not have condescended to parley with you—by Heaven I would not!"

"Nor I!" said the duke, stiffly.

"Nor I!" said Mancini.

"Surely," said Luziana Salustri, "Ferrari will make the amende honorable."

There was a pause. Each man looked at Ferrari with some anxiety. The suddenness of the quarrel had sobered the whole party more effectually than a cold douche. Ferrari's face grew more and more livid till his very lips turned a ghastly blue—he laughed aloud in bitter scorn. Then, walking steadily up to me, with his eyes full of baffled vindictiveness, he said, in a low clear tone:

"You say that—you say she never cared for me—YOU! and I am to apologize to you! Thief, coward, traitor—take that for my apology!" And he struck me across the mouth with his bare hand so fiercely that the diamond ring he wore (my diamond ring) cut my flesh and slightly drew blood. A shout of anger broke from all present! I turned to the Marquis D'Avencourt.

"There can be but one answer to this," I said, with indifferent coldness. "Signor Ferrari has brought it on himself. Marquis, will you do me the honor to arrange the affair?"

The marquis bowed, "I shall be most happy!"

Ferrari glared about him for a moment and then said, "Freccia, you will second me?"

Captain Freccia shrugged his shoulders. "You must positively excuse me," he said. "My conscience will not permit me to take up such a remarkably wrong cause as yours, cara mio! I shall be pleased to act with D'Avencourt for the count, if he will permit me." The marquis received him with cordiality, and the two engaged in earnest conversation. Ferrari next proffered his request to his quondam friend De Hamal, who also declined to second him, as did every one among the company. He bit his lips in mortification and wounded vanity, and seemed hesitating what to do next, when the marquis approached him with frigid courtesy and appeared to offer him some suggestions in a low tone of voice—for after a few minutes' converse, Ferrari suddenly turned on his heel and abruptly left the room without another word or look. At the same instant I touched Vincenzo, who, obedient to his orders, had remained an impassive but evidently astonished spectator of all that had passed, and whispered—"Follow that man and do not let him see you." He obeyed so instantly that the door had scarcely closed upon Ferrari when Vincenzo had also disappeared. The Marquis D'Avencourt now came up to me.

"Your opponent has gone to find two seconds," he said. "As you perceived, no one here would or could support him. It is a most unfortunate affair."

"Most unfortunate," chorused De Hamal, who, though not in it, appeared thoroughly to enjoy it.

"For my part," said the Duke di Marina, "I wonder how our noble friend could be so lenient with such a young puppy. His conceit is insufferable!"

Others around me made similar remarks, and were evidently anxious to show how entirely they were on my side. I however remained silent, lest they should see how gratified I was at the success of my scheme. The marquis addressed me again:

"While awaiting the other seconds, who are to find us here," he said, with a glance at his watch, "Freccia and I have arranged a few preliminaries. It is now nearly midnight. We propose that the affair should come off in the morning at six precisely. Will that suit you?"

I bowed.

"As the insulted party you have the choice of weapons. Shall we say—"

"Pistols," I replied briefly.

"A la bonne heure! Then, suppose we fix upon the plot of open ground just behind the hill to the left of the Casa Ghirlande—between that and the Villa Romani—it is quiet and secluded, and there will be no fear of interruption."

I bowed again.

"Thus it stands," continued the marquis, affably—"the hour of six—the weapons pistols—the paces to be decided hereafter when the other seconds arrive."

I professed myself entirely satisfied with these arrangements, and shook hands with my amiable coadjutor. I then looked round at the rest of the assembled company with a smile at their troubled faces.

"Gentlemen," I said, "our feast has broken up in a rather disagreeable manner—and I am sorry for it, the more especially as it compels me to part from you. Receive my thanks for your company, and for the friendship you have displayed toward me! I do not believe that this is the last time I shall have the honor of entertaining you—but if it should be so, I shall at any rate carry a pleasant remembrance of you into the next world! If on the contrary I should survive the combat of the morning, I hope to see you all again on my marriage-day, when nothing shall occur to mar our merriment. In the meantime—good-night!"

They closed round me, pressing my hands warmly and assuring me of their entire sympathy with me in the quarrel that had occurred. The duke was especially cordial, giving me to understand that had the others failed in their services, he himself, in spite of his dignity and peace-loving disposition, would have volunteered as my second. I escaped from them all at last and reached the quiet of my own apartments. There I sat alone for more than an hour, waiting for the return of Vincenzo, whom I had sent to track Ferrari. I heard the departing footsteps of my guests as they left the hotel by twos and threes—I heard the equable voices of the marquis and Captain Freccia ordering hot coffee to be served to them in a private room where they were to await the other seconds—now and then I caught a few words of the excited language of the waiters who were volubly discussing the affair as they cleared away the remains of the superb feast at which, though none knew it save myself, death had been seated. Thirteen at table! One was a traitor and one must die. I knew which one. No presentiment lurked in my mind as to the doubtful result of the coming combat. It was not my lot to fall—my time had not come yet—I felt certain of that! No! All the fateful forces of the universe would help me to keep alive till my vengeance was fulfilled. Oh, what bitter shafts of agony Ferrari carried in his heart at that moment, I thought. HOW he had looked when I said she never cared for him! Poor wretch! I pitied him even while I rejoiced at his torture. He suffered now as I had suffered—he was duped as I had been duped—and each quiver of his convulsed face and tormented frame had been fraught with satisfaction to me! Each moment of his life was now a pang to him. Well! it would soon be over—thus far at least I was merciful. I drew out pens and paper and commenced to write a few last instructions, in case the result of the fight should be fatal to me. I made them very concise and brief—I knew, while writing, that they would not be needed. Still—for the sake of form I wrote—and sealing the document, I directed it to the Duke di Marina. I looked at my watch—it was past one o'clock and Vincenzo had not yet returned. I went to the window, and drawing back the curtains, surveyed the exquisitely peaceful scene that lay before me. The moon was still high and bright—and her reflection made the waters of the bay appear like a warrior's coat of mail woven from a thousand glittering links of polished steel. Here and there, from the masts of anchored brigs and fishing-boats gleamed a few red and green lights burning dimly like fallen and expiring stars. There was a heavy unnatural silence everywhere—it oppressed me, and I threw the window wide open for air. Then came the sound of bells chiming softly. People passed to and fro with quiet footsteps—some paused to exchange friendly greetings. I remembered the day with a sort of pang at my heart. The night was over, though as yet there was no sign of dawn—and—it was Christmas morning!



CHAPTER XXV.

The opening of the room door aroused me from my meditations. I turned—to find Vincenzo standing near me, hat in hand—he had just entered.

"Ebbene!" I said, with a cheerful air—"what news?"

"Eccellenza, you have been obeyed. The young Signor Ferrari is now at his studio."

"You left him there?"

"Yes, eccellenza"—and Vincenzo proceeded to give me a graphic account of his adventures. On leaving the banqueting-room, Ferrari had taken a carriage and driven straight to the Villa Romani—Vincenzo, unperceived, had swung himself on to the back of the vehicle and had gone also.

"Arriving there," continued my valet, "he dismissed the fiacre—and rang the gate-bell furiously six or seven times. No one answered. I hid myself among the trees and watched. There were no lights in the villa windows—all was darkness. He rang it again—he even shook the gate as though he would break it open. At last the poor Giacomo came, half undressed and holding a lantern in his hand—he seemed terrified, and trembled so much that the lantern jogged up and down like a corpse-candle on a tomb.

"'I must see the contessa,' said the young signor, Giacomo blinked like an owl, and coughed as though the devil scratched in his throat.

"'The contessa!' he said. 'She is gone!'

"The signor then threw himself upon Giacomo and shook him to and fro as though he were a bag of loose wheat.

"'Gone!' and he screamed like a madman! 'WHERE? Tell me WHERE, dolt! idiot! driveler! before I twist your neck for you!'

"Truly, eccellenza, I would have gone to the rescue of the poor Giacomo, but respect for your commands kept me silent. 'A thousand pardons, signor!' he whispered, out of breath with his shaking.' I will tell you instantly—most instantly. She is at the Convento dell' Annunziata—ten miles from here—the saints know I speak the truth—she left two days since.'

"The Signor Ferrari then flung away the unfortunate Giacomo with so much force that he fell in a heap on the pavement and broke his lantern to pieces. The old man set up a most pitiful groaning, but the signor cared nothing for that. He was mad, I think. 'Get to bed!' he cried, 'and sleep—sleep till you die! Tell your mistress when you see her that I came to kill her! My curse upon this house and all who dwell in it!' And with that he ran so quickly through the garden into the high-road that I had some trouble to follow him. There after walking unsteadily for a few paces, he suddenly fell down, senseless."

Vincenzo paused. "Well," I said, "what happened next?"

"Eccellenza, I could not leave him there without aid. I drew my cloak well up to my mouth and pulled my hat down over my eyes so that he could not recognize me. Then I took water from the fountain close by and dashed it on his face. He soon came to himself, and, taking me for a stranger, thanked me for my assistance, saying that he had a sudden shock. He then drank greedily from the fountain and went on his way."

"You followed?"

"Yes, eccellenza—at a little distance. He next visited a common tavern in one of the back streets of the city and came out with two men. They were well dressed—they had the air of gentlemen spoiled by bad fortune. The signor talked with them for some time—he seemed much excited. I could not hear what they said except at the end, when these two strangers consented to appear as seconds for Signor Ferrari, and they at once left him, to come straight to this hotel. And they are arrived, for I saw them through a half-opened door as I came in, talking with the Marquis D'Avencourt."

"Well!" I said, "and what of Signor Ferrari when he was left alone by his two friends?"

"There is not much more to tell, eccellenza. He went up the little hill to his own studio, and I noticed that he walked like a very old man with his head bent. Once he stopped and shook his fist in the air as though threatening some one. He let himself in at his door with a private key—and I saw him no more. I felt that he would not come out again for some time. And as I moved away to return here, I heard a sound as of terrible weeping."

"And that is all, Vincenzo?"

"That is all, eccellenza."

I was silent. There was something in the simple narration that touched me, though I remained as determinately relentless as ever. After a few moments I said:

"You have done well, Vincenzo. You are aware how grossly this young man has insulted me—and that his injurious treatment can only be wiped out in one way. That way is already arranged. You can set out those pistols you cleaned."

Vincenzo obeyed—but as he lifted the heavy case of weapons and set them on the table, he ventured to remark, timidly:

"The eccellenza knows it is now Christmas-day?"

"I am quite aware of the fact," I said somewhat frigidly.

In nowise daunted he went on, "Coming back just now I saw the big Nicolo—the eccellenza has doubtless seen him often?—he is a vine-grower, and they say he is the largest man in Naples—three months since he nearly killed his brother—ebbene! To-night that same big Nicolo is drinking Chianti with that same brother, and both shouted after me as I passed, 'Hola! Vincenzo Flamma! all is well between us because it is the blessed Christ's birthday.'" Vincenzo stopped and regarded me wistfully.

"Well!" I said, calmly, "what has the big Nicolo or his brother to do with me?"

My valet hesitated—looked up—then down—finally he said, simply, "May the saints preserve the eccellenza from all harm!"

I smiled gravely. "Thank you, my friend! I understand what you mean. Have no fear for me. I am now going to lie down and rest till five o'clock or thereabouts—and I advise you to do the same. At that time you can bring me some coffee."

And I nodded kindly to him as I left him and entered my sleeping apartment, where I threw myself on the bed, dressed as I was. I had no intention of sleeping—my mind was too deeply engrossed by all I had gone through. I could enter into Guido's feelings—had I not suffered as he was now suffering?—nay! more than he—for HE, at any rate, would not be buried alive! I should take care of that! HE would not have to endure the agony of breaking loose from the cold grasp of the grave to come back to life and find his name slandered, and his vacant place filled up by a usurper. Do what I would, I could not torture him as much as I myself had been tortured. That was a pity—death, sudden and almost painless, seemed too good for him. I held up my hand in the half light and watched it closely to see if it trembled ever so slightly. No! it was steady as a rock—I felt I was sure of my aim. I would not fire at his heart, I thought but just above it—for I had to remember one thing—he must live long enough to recognize me before he died. THAT was the sting I reserved for his last moments! The sick dreams that had bewildered my brain when I was taken ill at the auberge recurred to me. I remembered the lithe figure, so like Guido, that had glided in the Indian canoe toward me and had plunged a dagger three times in my heart? Had it not been realized? Had not Guido stabbed me thrice?—in his theft of my wife's affections—in his contempt for my little dead child—in his slanders on my name? Then why such foolish notions of pity—of forgiveness, that were beginning to steal into my mind? It was too late now for forgiveness—the very idea of it only rose out of a silly sentimentalism awakened by Ferrari's allusion to our young days—days for which, after all, he really cared nothing. Meditating on all these things, I suppose I must have fallen by imperceptible degrees into a doze which gradually deepened till it became a profound and refreshing sleep. From this I was awakened by a knocking at the door. I arose and admitted Vincenzo, who entered bearing a tray of steaming coffee.

"Is it already so late?" I asked him.

"It wants a quarter to five," replied Vincenzo—then looking at me in some surprise, he added, "Will not the eccellenza change his evening-dress?"

I nodded in the affirmative—and while I drank my coffee my valet set out a suit of rough tweed, such as I was accustomed to wear every day. He then left me, and I quickly changed my attire, and while I did so I considered carefully the position of affairs. Neither the Marquis D'Avencourt nor Captain Freccia had ever known me personally when I was Fabio Romani—nor was it at all probable that the two tavern companions of Ferrari had ever seen me. A surgeon would be on the field—most probably a stranger. Thinking over these points, I resolved on a bold stroke—it was this—that when I turned to face Ferrari in the combat, I would do so with uncovered eyes—I would abjure my spectacles altogether for the occasion. Vaguely I wondered what the effect would be upon him. I was very much changed even without these disguising glasses—my white beard and hair had seemingly altered my aspect—yet I knew there was something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to startle one who had known me well. My seconds would consider it very natural that I should remove the smoke-colored spectacles in order to see my aim unencumbered—the only person likely to be disconcerted by my action was Ferrari himself. The more I thought of it the more determined I was to do it. I had scarcely finished dressing when Vincenzo entered with my overcoat, and informed me that the marquis waited for me, and that a close carriage was in attendance at the private door of the hotel.

"Permit me to accompany you, eccellenza!" pleaded the faithful fellow, with anxiety in the tone of his voice.

"Come then, amico!" I said, cheerily. "If the marquis makes no objection I shall not. But you must promise not to interrupt any of the proceedings by so much as an exclamation."

He promised readily, and when I joined the marquis he followed, carrying my case of pistols.

"He can be trusted, I suppose?" asked D'Avencourt, glancing keenly at him while shaking hands cordially with me.

"To the death!" I replied, laughingly. "He will break his heart if he is not allowed to bind up my wounds!"

"I see you are in good spirits, conte," remarked Captain Freccia, as we took our seats in the carriage. "It is always the way with the man who is in the right. Ferrari, I fear, is not quite so comfortable."

And he proffered me a cigar, which I accepted. Just as we were about to start, the fat landlord of the hotel rushed toward us, and laying hold of the carriage door—"Eccellenza," he observed in a confidential whisper, "of course this is only a matter of coffee and glorias? They will be ready for you all on your return. I know—I understand!" And he smiled and nodded a great many times, and laid his finger knowingly on the side of his nose. We laughed heartily, assuring him that his perspicuity was wonderful, and he stood on the broad steps in high good humor, watching us as our vehicle rumbled heavily away.

"Evidently," I remarked, "he does not consider a duel as a serious affair."

"Not he!" replied Freccia. "He has known of too many sham fights to be able to understand a real one. D'Avencourt knows something about that too, though he always kills his man. But very often it is sufficient to scratch one another with the sword-point so as to draw a quarter of a drop of blood, and honor is satisfied! Then the coffee and glorias are brought, as suggested by our friend the landlord."

"It is a ridiculous age," said the marquis, taking his cigar from his mouth, and complacently surveying his small, supple white hand, "thoroughly ridiculous, but I determined it should never make a fool of ME. You see, my dear conte, nowadays a duel is very frequently decided with swords rather than pistols, and why? Because cowards fancy it is much more difficult to kill with the sword. But not at all. Long ago I made up my mind that no man should continue to live who dared to insult me. I therefore studied swordplay as an art. And I assure you it is a simple matter to kill with the sword—remarkably simple. My opponents are astonished at the ease with which I dispatch them!"

Freccia laughed. "De Hamal is a pupil of yours, marquis, is he not?"

"I regret to say yes! He is marvelously clumsy. I have often earnestly requested him to eat his sword rather than handle it so boorishly. Yet he kills his men, too, but in a butcher-like manner—totally without grace or refinement. I should say he was about on a par with our two associates, Ferrari's seconds."

I roused myself from a reverie into which I had fallen.

"What men are they?" I inquired.

"One calls himself the Capitano Ciabatti, the other Cavaliere Dursi, at your service," answered Freccia, indifferently. "Good swearers both and hard drinkers—filled with stock phrases, such as 'our distinguished dear friend, Ferrari, 'wrongs which can only be wiped out by blood'—all bombast and braggadocio! These fellows would as soon be on one side as the other."

He resumed his smoking, and we all three lapsed into silence. The drive seemed very long, though in reality the distance was not great. At last we passed the Casa Ghirlande, a superb chateau belonging to a distinguished nobleman who in former days had been a friendly neighbor to me, and then our vehicle jolted down a gentle declivity which sloped into a small valley, where there was a good-sized piece of smooth flat greensward. From this spot could be faintly discerned the castellated turrets of my own house, the Villa Romani. Here we came to a standstill. Vincenzo jumped briskly down from his seat beside the coachman, and assisted us to alight. The carriage then drove off to a retired corner behind some trees. We surveyed the ground, and saw that as yet only one person beside ourselves had arrived. This was the surgeon, a dapper good-humored little German who spoke bad French and worse Italian, and who shook hands cordially with us all. On learning who I was he bowed low and smiled very amiably. "The best wish I can offer to you, signor," he said, "is that you may have no occasion for my services. You have reposed yourself? That is well—sleep steadies the nerves. Ach! you shiver! True it is, the morning is cold."

I did indeed experience a passing shudder, but not because the air was chilly. It was because I felt certain—so terribly certain, of killing the man I had once loved well. Almost I wished I could also feel that there was the slightest possibility of his killing me; but no!—all my instincts told me there was no chance of this. I had a sort of sick pain at my heart, and as I thought of HER, the jewel-eyed snake who had wrought all the evil, my wrath against her increased tenfold. I wondered scornfully what she was doing away in the quiet convent where the sacred Host, unveiled, glittered on the altar like a star of the morning. No doubt she slept; it was yet too early for her to practice her sham sanctity. She slept, in all probability most peacefully, while her husband and her lover called upon death to come and decide between them. The slow clear strokes of a bell chiming from the city tolled six, and as its last echo trembled mournfully on the wind there was a slight stir among my companions. I looked and saw Ferrari approaching with his two associates. He walked slowly, and was muffled in a thick cloak; his hat was pulled over his brows, and I could not see the expression of his face, as he did not turn his head once in my direction, but stood apart leaning against the trunk of a leafless tree. The seconds on both sides now commenced measuring the ground.

"We are agreed as to the distance, gentlemen," said the marquis. "Twenty paces, I think?"

"Twenty paces," stiffly returned one of Ferrari's friends—a battered-looking middle-aged roue with ferocious mustachios, whom I presumed was Captain Ciabatti.

They went on measuring carefully and in silence. During the pause I turned my back on the whole party, slipped off my spectacles and put them in my pocket. Then I lowered the brim of my hat slightly so that the change might not be observed too suddenly—and resuming my first position, I waited. It was daylight though not full morning—the sun had not yet risen, but there was an opaline luster in the sky, and one pale pink streak in the east like the floating pennon from the lance of a hero, which heralded his approach. There was a gentle twittering of awakening birds—the grass sparkled with a million tiny drops of frosty dew. A curious calmness possessed me. I felt for the time as though I were a mechanical automaton moved by some other will than my own. I had no passion left.

The weapons were now loaded—and the marquis, looking about him with a cheerful business-like air, remarked:

"I think we may now place our men?"

This suggestion agreed to, Ferrari left his place near the tree against which he had in part inclined as though fatigued, and advanced to the spot his seconds pointed out to him. He threw off his hat and overcoat, thereby showing that he was still in his evening-dress. His face was haggard and of a sickly paleness—his eyes had dark rings of pain round them, and were full of a keen and bitter anguish. He eagerly grasped the pistol they handed to him, and examined it closely with vengeful interest. I meanwhile also threw off my hat and coat—the marquis glanced at me with careless approval.

"You look a much younger man without your spectacles, conte," he remarked as he handed me my weapon. I smiled indifferently, and took up my position at the distance indicated, exactly opposite Ferrari. He was still occupied in the examination of his pistol, and did not at once look up.

"Are we ready, gentlemen?" demanded Freccia, with courteous coldness.

"Quite ready," was the response. The Marquis D'Avencourt took out his handkerchief. Then Ferrari raised his head and faced me fully for the first time. Great Heaven! shall I ever forget the awful change that came over his pallid countenance—the confused mad look of his eyes—the startled horror of his expression! His lips moved as though he were about to utter an exclamation—he staggered.

"One!" cried D'Avencourt.

We raised our weapons.

"Two!"

The scared and bewildered expression of Ferrari's face deepened visibly as he eyed me steadily in taking aim. I smiled proudly—I gave him back glance for glance—I saw him waver—his hand shook.

"Three!" and the white handkerchief fluttered to the ground. Instantly, and together, we fired. Ferrari's bullet whizzed past me, merely tearing my coat and grazing my shoulder. The smoke cleared—Ferrari still stood erect, opposite to me, staring straight forward with the same frantic faroff look—the pistol had dropped from his hand. Suddenly he threw up his arms—shuddered—and with a smothered groan fell, face forward, prone on the sward. The surgeon hurried to his side and turned him so that he lay on his back. He was unconscious—though his dark eyes were wide open, and turned blindly upward to the sky. The front of his shirt was already soaked with blood. We all gathered round him.

"A good shot?" inquired the marquis, with the indifference of a practiced duelist.

"Ach! a good shot indeed!" replied the little German doctor, shaking his head as he rose from his examination of the wound. "Excellent! He will be dead in ten minutes. The bullet has passed through the lungs close to the heart. Honor is satisfied certainly!"

At that moment a deep anguished sigh parted the lips of the dying man. Sense and speculation returned to those glaring eyes so awfully upturned. He looked upon us all doubtfully one after the other—till finally his gaze rested upon me. Then he grew strangely excited—his lips moved—he eagerly tried to speak. The doctor, watchful of his movements, poured brandy between his teeth. The cordial gave him momentary strength—he raised himself by a supreme effort.

"Let me speak," he gasped faintly, "to HIM!" And he pointed to me—then he continued to mutter like a man in a dream—"to him—alone—alone!—to him alone!"

The others, slightly awed by his manner, drew aside out of ear-shot, and I advanced and knelt beside him, stooping my face between his and the morning sky. His wild eyes met mine with a piteous beseeching terror.

"In God's name," he whispered, thickly, "WHO ARE YOU?"

"You know me, Guido!" I answered, steadily. "I am Fabio Romani, whom you once called friend! I am he whose wife you stole!—whose name you slandered!—whose honor you despised! Ah! look at me well! your own heart tells you who I am!"

He uttered a low moan and raised his hand with a feeble gesture.

"Fabio? Fabio?" he gasped. "He died—I saw him in his coffin—"

I leaned more closely over him. "I was BURIED ALIVE," I said with thrilling distinctness. "Understand me, Guido—buried alive! I escaped—no matter how. I came home—to learn your treachery and my own dishonor! Shall I tell you more?"

A terrible shudder shook his frame—his head moved restlessly to and fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead. With my own handkerchief I wiped his lips and brow tenderly—my nerves were strung up to an almost brittle tension—I smiled as a woman smiles when on the verge of hysterical weeping.

"You know the avenue," I said, "the dear old avenue, where the nightingales sing? I saw you there, Guido—with HER!—on the very night of my return from death—SHE was in your arms—you kissed her—you spoke of me—you toyed with the necklace on her white breast!"

He writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement.

"Tell me—quick!" he gasped. "Does—SHE—know you?"

"Not yet!" I answered, slowly. "But soon she will—when I have married her!"

A look of bitter anguish filled his straining eyes. "Oh, God, God!" he exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. "This is horrible, too horrible! Spare me—spare—" A rush of blood choked his utterance. His breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of approaching dissolution spread itself gradually over his countenance. Staring wildly at me, he groped with his hands as though he searched for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within my own, and held it closely clasped.

"You know the rest," I said gently; "you understand my vengeance! But it is all over, Guido—all over, now! She has played us both false. May God forgive you as I do!"

He smiled—a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes—the old boyish look that had won my love in former days.

"All over!" he repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. "All over now! God—Fabio—forgive!—" A terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted his limbs and features, his throat rattled, and stretching himself out with a long shivering sigh—he died! The first beams of the rising sun, piercing through the dark, moss-covered branches of the pine-trees, fell on his clustering hair, and lent a mocking brilliancy to his wide-open sightless eyes: there was a smile on the closed lips! A burning, suffocating sensation rose in my throat, as of rebellious tears trying to force a passage. I still held the hand of my friend and enemy—it had grown cold in my clasp. Upon it sparkled my family diamond—the ring SHE had given him. I drew the jewel off: then I kissed that poor passive hand as I laid it gently down—kissed it tenderly, reverently. Hearing footsteps approaching, I rose from my kneeling posture and stood erect with folded arms, looking tearlessly down on the stiffening clay before me. The rest of the party came up; no one spoke for a minute, all surveyed the dead body in silence. At last Captain Freccia said, softly in half-inquiring accents:

"He is gone, I suppose?"

I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.

"He made you his apology?" asked the marquis.

I bowed again. There was another pause of heavy silence. The rigid smiling face of the corpse seemed to mock all speech. The doctor stooped and skillfully closed those glazed appealing eyes—and then it seemed to me as though Guido merely slept and that a touch would waken him. The Marquis D'Avencourt took me by the arm and whispered, "Get back to the city, amico, and take some wine—you look positively ill! Your evident regret does you credit, considering the circumstances—but what would you?—it was a fair fight. Consider the provocation you had! I should advise you to leave Naples for a couple of weeks—by that time the affair will be forgotten. I know how these things are managed—leave it all to me."

I thanked him and shook his hand cordially and turned to depart. Vincenzo was in waiting with the carriage. Once I looked back, as with slow steps I left the field; a golden radiance illumined the sky just above the stark figure stretched so straightly on the sward; while almost from the very side of that pulseless heart a little bird rose from its nest among the grasses and soared into the heavens, singing rapturously as it flew into the warmth and glory of the living, breathing day.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Entering the fiacre, I drove in it a very little way toward the city. I bade the driver stop at the corner of the winding road that led to the Villa Romani, and there I alighted. I ordered Vincenzo to go on to the hotel and send from thence my own carriage and horses up to the villa gates, where I would wait for it. I also bade him pack my portmanteau in readiness for my departure that evening, as I proposed going to Avellino, among the mountains, for a few days. He heard my commands in silence and evident embarrassment. Finally he said:

"Do I also travel with the eccellenza?"

"Why, no!" I answered with a forced sad smile. "Do you not see, amico, that I am heavy-hearted, and melancholy men are best left to themselves. Besides—remember the carnival—I told you you were free to indulge in its merriment, and shall I not deprive you of your pleasure? No, Vincenzo; stay and enjoy yourself, and take no concern for me."

Vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features wore an expression of obstinacy.

"The eccellenza must pardon me," he said, "but I have just looked at death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. Again—the eccellenza is sad—it is necessary that I should accompany him to Avellino."

I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no humor for argument.

"As you will," I answered, wearily, "only believe me, you make a foolish decision. But do what you like; only arrange all so that we leave to-night. And now get back quickly—give no explanation at the hotel of what has occurred, and lose no time in sending on my carriage. I will wait alone at the Villa Romani till it comes."

The vehicle rumbled off, bearing Vincenzo seated on the box beside the driver. I watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led me to my own dishonored home. The place looked silent and deserted—not a soul was stirring. The silken blinds of the reception-rooms were all closely drawn, showing that the mistress of the house was absent; it was as if some one lay dead within. A vague wonderment arose in my mind. WHO was dead? Surely it must be I—I the master of the household, who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms! This terrible white-haired man who roamed feverishly up and down outside the walls was not me—it was some angry demon risen from the grave to wreak punishment on the guilty. I was dead—I could never have killed the man who had once been my friend. And he also was dead—the same murderess had slain us both—and SHE lived! Ha! that was wrong—she must now die—but in such torture that her very soul shall shrink and shrivel under it into a devil's flame for the furnace of hell!

With my brain full of hot whirling thoughts like these I looked through the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. Here had Guido stood, poor wretch, last night, shaking these twisted wreaths of iron in impotent fury. There on the mosaic pavement he had flung the trembling old servant who had told him of the absence of his traitress. On this very spot he had launched his curse, which, though he knew it not, was the curse of a dying man. I was glad he had uttered it—such maledictions cling! There was nothing but compassion for him in my heart now that he was dead. He had been duped and wronged even as I; and I felt that his spirit, released from its grosser clay, would work with mine and aid in her punishment.

I paced round the silent house till I came to the private wicket that led into the avenue; I opened it and entered the familiar path. I had not been there since the fatal night on which I had learned my own betrayal. How intensely still were those solemn pines—how gaunt and dark and grim! Not a branch quivered—not a leaf stirred. A cold dew that was scarcely a frost glittered on the moss at my feet, No bird's voice broke the impressive hush of the wood-lands morning dream. No bright-hued flower unbuttoned its fairy cloak to the breeze; yet there was a subtle perfume everywhere—the fragrance of unseen violets whose purple eyes were still closed in slumber.

I gazed on the scene as a man may behold in a vision the spot where he once was happy. I walked a few paces, then paused with a strange beating at my heart. A shadow fell across my path—it flitted before me, it stopped—it lay still. I saw it resolve itself into the figure of a man stretched out in rigid silence, with the light beating full on its smiling, dead face, and also on a deep wound just above his heart, from which the blood oozed redly, staining the grass on which he lay. Mastering the sick horror which seized me at this sight, I sprung forward—the shadow vanished instantly—it was a mere optical delusion, the result of my overwrought and excited condition. I shuddered involuntarily at the image my own heated fancy had conjured up; should I always see Guido thus, I thought, even in my dreams?

Suddenly a ringing, swaying rush of sound burst joyously on the silence—the slumbering trees awoke, their leaves moved, their dark branches quivered, and the grasses lifted up their green lilliputian sword-blades. Bells!—and SUCH bells!—tongues of melody that stormed the air with sweetest eloquence—round, rainbow bubbles of music that burst upon the wind, and dispersed in delicate broken echoes.

"Peace on earth, good will to men! Peace—on—earth—good—will—to—men!" they seemed to say over and over again, till my ears ached with the repetition. Peace! What had I to do with peace or good-will? The Christ Mass could teach me nothing. I was as one apart from human life-an alien from its customs and affections—for me no love, no brotherhood remained. The swinging song of the chimes jarred my nerves. Why, I thought, should the wild erring world, with all its wicked men and women, presume to rejoice at the birth of the Saviour?—they, who were not worthy to be saved! I turned swiftly away; I strode fiercely past the kingly pines that, now thoroughly awakened, seemed to note me with a stern disdain as though they said among themselves: "What manner of small creature is this that torments himself with passions unknown to US in our calm converse with the stars?"

I was glad when I stood again on the high-road, and infinitely relieved when I heard the rapid trot of horses rumbling of wheels, and saw my closed brougham, drawn by its prancing black Arabians, approaching. I walked to meet it; the coachman seeing me drew up instantly, I bade him take me to the Convento dell'Annunziata, and entering the carriage, I was driven rapidly away.

The convent was situated, I knew, somewhere between Naples and Sorrento. I guessed it to be near Castellamare, but it was fully three miles beyond that, and was a somewhat long drive of more than two hours. It lay a good distance out of the direct route, and was only attained by a by-road, which from its rough and broken condition was evidently not much frequented. The building stood apart from all other habitations in a large open piece of ground, fenced in by a high stone wall spiked at the top. Roses climbed thickly among the spikes, and almost hid their sharp points from view, and from a perfect nest of green foliage, the slender spire of the convent chapel rose into the sky like a white finger pointing to heaven. My coachman drew up before the heavily barred gates. I alighted, and bade him take the carriage to the principal hostelry at Castellamare, and wait for me there. As soon as he had driven off, I rang the convent bell. A little wicket fixed in the gate opened immediately, and the wrinkled visage of a very old and ugly nun looked out. She demanded in low tones what I sought. I handed her my card, and stated my desire to see the Countess Romani, if agreeable to the superioress. While I spoke she looked at me curiously—my spectacles, I suppose, excited her wonder—for I had replaced these disguising glasses immediately on leaving the scene of the duel—I needed them yet a little while longer. After peering at me a minute or two with her bleared and aged eyes, she shut the wicket in my face with a smart click and disappeared. While I awaited her return I heard the sound of children's laughter and light footsteps running trippingly on the stone passage within.

"Fi donc, Rosie!" said the girl's voice in French; "la bonne Mere Marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi."

"Tais-toi, petite sainte!" cried another voice more piercing and silvery in tone. "Je veux voir qui est la! C'est un homme je sais bien—parceque la vieille Mere Laura a rougi!" and both young voices broke into a chorus of renewed laughter.

Then came the shuffling noise of the old nun's footsteps returning; she evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for I heard her expostulating, scolding and apostrophizing the saints all in a breath, as she bade them go inside the house and ask the good little Jesus to forgive their naughtiness. A silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of the huge gate were undone slowly—it opened, and I was admitted. I raised my hat as I entered, and walked bareheaded through a long, cold corridor, guided by the venerable nun, who looked at me no more, but told her beads as she walked, and never spoke till she had led me into the building, through a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and statues, and from thence into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose windows commanded a fine view of the grounds. Here she motioned me to take a seat, and without lifting her eyelids, said:

"Mother Marguerite will wait upon you instantly, signor."

I bowed, and she glided from the room so noiselessly that I did not even hear the door close behind her. Left alone in what I rightly concluded was the reception-room for visitors, I looked about me with some faint interest and curiosity. I had never before seen the interior of what is known as an educational convent. There were many photographs on the walls and mantelpiece—portraits of girls, some plain of face and form, others beautiful—no doubt they had all been sent to the nuns as souvenirs of former pupils. Rising from my chair I examined a few of them carelessly, and was about to inspect a fine copy of Murillo's Virgin, when my attention was caught by an upright velvet frame surmounted with my own crest and coronet. In it was the portrait of my wife, taken in her bridal dress, as she looked when she married me. I took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously. This was she—this slim, fairy-like creature clad in gossamer white, with the marriage veil thrown back from her clustering hair and child-like face—this was the THING for which two men's lives had been sacrificed! With a movement of disgust I replaced the frame in its former position; I had scarcely done so when the door opened quietly and a tall woman, clad in trailing robes of pale blue with a nun's band and veil of fine white cashmere, stood before me. I saluted her with a deep reverence; she responded by the slightest possible bend of her head. Her outward manner was so very still and composed that when she spoke her colorless lips scarcely moved, her very breathing never stirred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on her quiet breast. Her voice, though low, was singularly clear and penetrating.

"I address the Count Oliva?" she inquired.

I bowed in the affirmative. She looked at me keenly: she had dark, brilliant eyes, in which the smoldering fires of many a conquered passion still gleamed.

"You would see the Countess Romani, who is in retreat here?"

"If not inconvenient or out of rule—" I began.

The shadow of a smile flitted across the nun's pale, intellectual face; it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"Not at all," she replied, in the same even monotone. "The Countess Nina is, by her own desire, following a strict regime, but to-day being a universal feast-day all rules are somewhat relaxed. The reverend mother desires me to inform you that it is now the hour for mass—she has herself already entered the chapel. If you will share in our devotions, the countess shall afterward be informed of your presence here."

I could do no less than accede to this proposition, though in truth it was unwelcome to me. I was in no humor for either prayers or praise; I thought moodily how startled even this impassive nun might have been, could she have known what manner of man it was that she thus invited to kneel in the sanctuary. However, I said no word of objection, and she bade me follow her. As we left the room I asked:

"Is the countess well?"

"She seems so," returned Mere Marguerite; "she follows her religious duties with exactitude, and makes no complaint of fatigue."

We were now crossing the hall. I ventured on another inquiry.

"She was a favorite pupil of yours, I believe?"

The nun turned her passionless face toward me with an air of mild surprise and reproof.

"I have no favorites," she answered, coldly. "All the children educated here share my attention and regard equally."

I murmured an apology, and added with a forced smile:

"You must pardon my apparent inquisitiveness, but as the future husband of the lady who was brought up under your care, I am naturally interested in all that concerns her."

Again the searching eyes of the religieuse surveyed me; she sighed slightly.

"I am aware of the connection between you," she said, in rather a pained tone. "Nina Romani belongs to the world, and follows the ways of the world. Of course, marriage is the natural fulfillment of most young girls' destinies, there are comparatively few who are called out of the ranks to serve Christ. Therefore, when Nina married the estimable Count Romani, of whom report spoke ever favorably, we rejoiced greatly, feeling that her future was safe in the hands of a gentle and wise protector. May his soul rest in peace! But a second marriage for her is what I did not expect, and what I cannot in my conscience approve. You see I speak frankly."

"I am honored that you do so, madame!" I said, earnestly, feeling a certain respect for this sternly composed yet patient-featured woman; "yet, though in general you may find many reasonable objections to it, a second marriage is I think, in the Countess Romani's case almost necessary. She is utterly without a protector—she is very young and how beautiful!"

The nun's eyes grew solemn and almost mournful.

"Such beauty is a curse," she answered, with emphasis; "a fatal—a fearful curse! As a child it made her wayward. As a woman it keeps her wayward still. Enough of this, signor!" and she bowed her head; "excuse my plain speaking. Rest assured that I wish you both happiness."

We had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody. Mere Marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. I seated myself, and looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene before me. There was the sparkle of twinkling lights—the bloom and fragrance of flowers. There were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. Behind these a little cluster of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely hidden in veils of flowing white muslin. Behind these again, one woman's slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was black, yet not so thick but that I could perceive the sheeny glitter of golden hair—that was my wife, I knew. Pious angel! how devout she looked! I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched her; I cursed her afresh in the name of the man I had killed. And above all, surrounded with the luster of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered Host shone serenely like the gleam of the morning star. The stately service went on—the organ music swept through and through the church as though it were a strong wind striving to set itself free—but amid it all I sat as one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing—inflexible and cold as marble. The rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the choir, singing the Agnus Dei, moved me to a chill sort of wonder. "Qui tollis peccata mundi—Who takest away the sin of the world." No, no! there are some sins that cannot be taken away—the sins of faithless women, the "LITTLE" sins as they are called nowadays—for we have grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others. We will imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets, but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free; she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor—not she! A pity it is that Christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be done with such women—not the penitent Magdalenes, but the creatures whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray—they who would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive their last confessions—they who would even act out a sham repentance on their deathbeds in order to look well. What can be done with devils such as these? Much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on women by men; will no one take up the other side of the question? We, the stronger sex, are weak in this—we are too chivalrous. When a woman flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent. Tortures will not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying her. I know not what it can be—perhaps it is the memory of our mothers. Whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman. But a time is at hand when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out. On changera tout cela! When once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge. We are slow to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for the female sex, as this is evidently the point the women desire to bring us to. We shall meet them on that low platform of the "equality" they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite!

Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched me, and looking up I saw Mere Marguerite, who whispered:

"Follow me, if you please."

I rose and obeyed her mechanically. Outside the chapel door she said:

"Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see the nuns and boarders passing out."

I bowed, and walked on beside her. Feeling forced to say something, I asked:

"Have you many boarders at this holiday season?"

"Only fourteen," she replied, "and they are children whose parents live far away. Poor little ones!" and the set lines of the nun's stern face softened into tenderness as she spoke. "We do our best to make them happy, but naturally they feel lonely. We have generally fifty or sixty young girls here, besides the day scholars."

"A great responsibility," I remarked.

"Very great indeed!" and she sighed; "almost terrible. So much of a woman's after life depends on the early training she receives. We do all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil creeps in, we know not how—some unsuspected fault spoils a character that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our most promising pupils. Alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish in this world."

Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with books and softly carpeted.

"This is one of our libraries," she explained. "The countess will receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the drawing-room. Pardon me," and her steady gaze had something of compassion in it, "but you do not look well. Can I send you some wine?"

I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured her I was perfectly well. She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously:

"I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Nina Romani's marriage with you? I fear I was too hasty?"

"Not so, madame," I answered, with all the earnestness I felt. "Nothing is more pleasant to me than a frank opinion frankly spoken. I have been so accustomed to deception—" Here I broke off and added hastily, "Pray do not think me capable of judging you wrongly."

She seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers, she said:

"No doubt you are impatient, signor; Nina shall come to you directly," and with a slight salutation she left me.

Surely she was a good woman, I thought, and vaguely wondered about her past history—that past which she had buried forever under a mountain of prayers. What had she been like when young—before she had shut herself within the convent walls—before she had set the crucifix like a seal on her heart? Had she ever trapped a man's soul and strangled it with lies? I fancied not—her look was too pure and candid; yet who could tell? Were not Nina's eyes trained to appear as though they held the very soul of truth? A few minutes passed. I heard the fresh voices of children singing in the next room:

"D'ou vient le petit Gesu? Ce joli bouton de rose Qui fleurit, enfant cheri Sur le coeur de notre mere Marie."

Then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my wife entered.



CHAPTER XXVII.

She approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement, her red lips parted in a charming smile.

"So good of you to come!" she began, holding out her two hands as though she invited an embrace; "and on Christmas morning too!" She paused, and seeing that I did not move or speak, she regarded me with some alarm. "What is the matter?" she asked, in fainter tones; "has anything happened?"

I looked at her. I saw that she was full of sudden fear, I made no attempt to soothe her, I merely placed a chair.

"Sit down," I said, gravely. "I am the bearer of bad news."

She sunk into the chair as though unnerved, and gazed at me with terrified eyes. She trembled. Watching her keenly, I observed all these outward signs of trepidation with deep satisfaction. I saw plainly what was passing in her mind. A great dread had seized her—the dread that I had found out her treachery. So indeed I had, but the time had not yet come for her to know it. Meanwhile she suffered—suffered acutely with that gnawing terror and suspense eating into her soul. I said nothing, I waited for her to speak. After a pause, during which her cheeks had lost their delicate bloom, she said, forcing a smile as she spoke—

"Bad news? You surprise me! What can it be? Some unpleasantness with Guido? Have you seen him?"

"I have seen him," I answered in the same formal and serious tone; "I have just left him. He sends you THIS," and I held out my diamond ring that I had drawn off the dead man's finger.

If she had been pale before, she grew paler now. All the brilliancy of her complexion faded for the moment into an awful haggardness. She took the ring with fingers that shook visibly and were icy cold. There was no attempt at smiling now. She drew a sharp quick breath; she thought I knew all. I was again silent. She looked at the diamond signet with a bewildered air.

"I do not understand," she murmured, petulantly. "I gave him this as a remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?"

Self-tortured criminal! I studied her with a dark amusement, but answered nothing. Suddenly she looked up at me and her eyes filled with tears.

"Why are you so cold and strange, Cesare?" she pleaded, in a sort of plaintive whimper. "Do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me and tell me at once what has happened."

Kiss her! So soon after kissing the dead hand of her lover! No, I could not and would not. I remained standing where I was, inflexibly silent. She glanced at me again, very timidly, and whimpered afresh.

"Ah, you do not love me!" she murmured. "You could not be so stern and silent if you loved me! If there is indeed any bad news, you ought to break it to me gently and kindly. I thought you would always make everything easy for me—"

"Such has been my endeavor, madame," I said interrupting her complaint. "From your own statement, I judged that your adopted brother Guido Ferrari had rendered himself obnoxious to you. I promised that I would silence him—you remember! I have kept my word. He IS silenced—forever!"

She started.

"Silenced? How? You mean—"

I moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that I faced her as I spoke.

"I mean that he is dead."

She uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment.

"DEAD!" she exclaimed. "Not possible! Dead! You have killed him?"

I bent my head gravely. "I killed him—yes! But in open combat, openly witnessed. Last night he insulted me grossly; we fought this morning. We forgave each other before he died."