"Margaretha," said Nisida, "you must prepare to accompany me forthwith! Be not surprised to hear me thus capable of rendering myself intelligible by means of an organ on which a seal was so long placed. A marvelous cure has been accomplished in respect to me, during my absence from Florence. But you must prepare to accompany me, I say; your son Antonio——"

"My son!" ejaculated the woman, now again trembling from head to foot, and surveying Nisida's countenance in a manner denoting the acutest suspense.

"Your son is wounded—mortally wounded in a street skirmish——"

"Wounded!" shrieked Margaretha. "Oh, dear lady—tell me all—tell me the worst! What has happened to my unfortunate son? He is dead—he is dead! Your manner convinces me that hope is past!"

And she wrung her hands bitterly, while tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

"No, he is not dead, Margaretha!" exclaimed Nisida; "but he is dying—and he implored me, by everything I deemed sacred, to hasten thither and fetch you to him, that he may receive your blessing and close his eyes in peace."

"In peace!" repeated the old woman bitterly: then, to herself she said, "Donna Nisida suspects not his perfidy—knows not all his wickedness."

"Delay not," urged the lady, perceiving what was passing in her mind. "You are well aware that my brother, who, alas! has disappeared most mysteriously, dismissed Antonio abruptly from his service many months ago; but, whatever were the cause, it is forgotten, at least by me. So tarry not, but prepare to accompany me."

Margaretha hastened to her bedroom, and reappeared in a few minutes, completely dressed and ready to issue forth.

"Keep close by me," said Nisida, as she opened the house-door; "and breathe not a word as we pass through the streets. I have reasons of my own for assuming a disguise, and I wish not to be recognized."

Margaretha was too much absorbed in the contemplation of the afflicting intelligence which she had received, to observe anything at all suspicious in these injunctions; and thus it was that the two females proceeded in silence through the streets leading toward the Riverola mansion.

By means of a pass-key Nisida opened the wicket-gate of the spacious gardens, and she traversed the grounds, Margaretha walking by her side. In a few minutes they reached a low door, affording admission into the basement-story of the palace, and of which Nisida always possessed the key.

"Go first," said the lady, in a scarcely audible whisper; "I must close the door behind us."

"But wherefore this way?" demanded Margaretha, a sudden apprehension starting up in her mind. "This door leads down to the cellars."

"The officers of justice are in search of Antonio—and I am concealing him for your sake," was the whispered and rapid assurance given by Nisida. "Would you have him die in peace in your arms, or perish on the scaffold?"

Margaretha shuddered convulsively, and hurried down the dark flight of stone steps upon which the door opened. Terrible emotions raged in her bosom—indescribable alarms, grief, suspicion, and also a longing eagerness to put faith in the apparent friendship of Nisida.

"Give me your hand," said the lady; and the hand that was thrust into hers was cold and trembling.

Then Nisida hurried Margaretha along a narrow subterranean passage, in which the blackest night reigned; and, though the old woman was a prey to apprehensions that increased each moment to a fearful degree, she dared not utter a word either to question—to implore—or to remonstrate. At length they stopped; and Nisida, dropping Margaretha's hand, drew back heavy bolts which raised ominous echoes in the vaulted passage. In another moment a door began to move stubbornly on its hinges; and almost at the same time a faint light gleamed forth—increasing in power as the door opened wider, but still attaining no greater strength than that which a common iron lamp could afford. Margaretha's anxious glances were plunged into the cellar or vault to which the door opened, and whence the light came: but she saw no one within. It, however, appeared as if some horrible reminiscence, connected with the place, came back to her startled mind; for, falling on her knees, and clinging wildly to her companion, she cried in a piercing tone, "Oh! lady, wherefore have you brought me hither?—where is my son?—what does all this horrible mystery mean? But, chiefly now of all—why, why are we here—at this hour?"

"In a few moments you shall know more!" exclaimed Nisida; and as she spoke, with an almost superhuman strength she dragged, or rather, flung the prostrate woman into the vault, rushing in herself immediately afterward, and closing the door behind her.

"Holy God!" shrieked Margaretha, gazing wildly round the damp and naked walls of solid masonry, and then up at the lamp suspended to the arched ceiling, "is this the place? But no! you are ignorant of all that; it was not for that you brought me hither! Speak, lady, speak! Where is Antonio? What have I done to merit your displeasure? Oh, mercy! mercy! Bend not those terrible glances upon me! Your eyes flash fire! You are not Nisida—you are an evil spirit! Oh, mercy! mercy!"

And thus did the miserable woman rave, as, kneeling on the cold, damp ground she extended her tightly-clasped hands in an imploring manner toward Nisida, who, drawn up to her full height, was contemplating the groveling wretch with eyes that seemed to shoot forth shafts of devouring flame! Terrible, indeed, was the appearance of Nisida! Like to an avenging deity was she—no longer woman in the glory of her charms and the elegance of her disguise, but a fury—a very fiend, an implacable demoness, armed with the blasting lightnings of infernal malignity and hellish rancor!

"Holy Virgin, protect me!" shrieked Margaretha, every nerve thrilling with the agony of ineffable alarm.

"Yes, call upon Heaven to aid you, vile woman!" said Nisida, in a thick, hoarse, and strangely altered voice, "for you are beyond the reach of human aid! Know ye whose remains—or rather the mangled portions of whose remains—lie in this unconsecrated ground? Ah! well may you start in horror and surprise, for I know all—all!"

A terrific scream burst from the lips of Margaretha; and she threw her wild looks around as if she were going mad.

"Detestable woman!" exclaimed Nisida, fixing her burning eyes more intently still on Margaretha's countenance: "you are now about to pay the penalty of your complicity in the most odious crimes that ever made nights terrible in Florence! The period of vengeance has at length arrived! But I must torture ere I slay ye! Yes, I must give thee a foretaste of that hell to which your soul is so soon to plunge down! Know, then, that Antonio—your son Antonio—is no more. Not three hours have elapsed since he was slain—assassinated—murdered, if you will so call it—and by my commands."

"Oh! lady, have pity upon me—pity upon me, a bereaved mother!" implored the old woman, in a voice of anguish so penetrating, that vile as she was, it would have moved any human being save Nisida. "Do not kill me—and I will end my miserable days in a convent! Give me time to repent of all my sins—for they are numerous and great! Oh! spare me, dear lady—have mercy upon me—have mercy upon me!"

"What mercy had you on them whose mangled remains are buried in the ground beneath your feet?" demanded Nisida, in a voice almost suffocated with rage. "Prepare for death—your last moment is at hand!" and a bright dagger flashed in the lamp-light.

"Mercy—mercy!" exclaimed Margaretha, springing forward, and grasping Nisida's knees.

"I know not what mercy is!" cried the terrible Italian woman, raising the long, bright, glittering dagger over her head.

"Holy God! protect me! Lady—dear lady, have pity upon me!" shrieked the agonized wretch, her countenance hideously distorted, and appallingly ghastly, as it was raised in such bitterly earnest appeal toward that of the avengeress. "Again I say mercy—mercy!"

"Die, fiend!" exclaimed Nisida; and the dagger, descending with lightning speed, sunk deep into the bosom of the prostrate victim. A dreadful cry burst from the lips of the wretched woman; and she fell back—a corpse!

"Oh! my dear—my well-beloved and never-to-be-forgotten mother!" said Nisida, falling upon her knees by the side of the body, and gazing intently upward—as if her eyes could pierce the entire building overhead, and catch a glimpse of the spirit of the parent whom she thus apostrophized—"pardon me—pardon me for this deed! Thou didst enjoin me to abstain from vengeance—but when I thought of all thy wrongs, the contemplation drove me mad—and an irresistible power—a force which I could not resist—has hurried me on to achieve the punishment of this wretch who was so malignant an enemy of thine; dearest mother, pardon me—look not down angrily on thy daughter!"

Then Nisida gave way to all the softer emotion which attended the reaction that her mind was now rapidly undergoing, after being so highly strung, as for the last few hours it was—and her tears fell in torrents. For some minutes she remained in her kneeling position, and weeping, till she grew afraid—yes, afraid of being in that lonely place, with the corpse stretched on the ground—a place, too, which for other reasons awoke such terrible recollections in her mind.

Starting to her feet—and neither waiting to extinguish the lamp, which she herself had lighted at an early period of the night, nor to withdraw her dagger from the bosom of the murdered Margaretha—Nisida fled from the vault, and regained her own apartment in safety, and unperceived.

* * * * *

When morning dawned, Nisida rose from a couch in which she had obtained two hours of troubled slumber, and, having hastily dressed herself, proceeded to the chamber of her brother Francisco.

But he was not there—nor had his bed been slept in during the past night.

"He is searching after his Flora," thought Nisida. "Alas, poor youth—how it grieves me thus to be compelled to thwart thee in thy love! But my oath—and thine interests, Francisco, demand this conduct on my part. And better—better it is that thou shouldst hear from strangers the terrible tidings that thy Flora is a prisoner in the dungeon of the inquisition, where she can issue forth only to proceed to the stake! Yes—and better, too, is it that she should die, than that this marriage shall be accomplished!"

Nisida quitted the room, and repaired to the apartment where the morning repast was served up.

A note, addressed to herself, lay upon the table. She instantly recognized the handwriting of Dr. Duras, tore open the billet, and read the contents as follows:

"My brother Angelo came to me very late last night and informed me that a sense of imperious duty compelled him to change his mind relative to the two women Francatelli. He accordingly appeared on their behalf, and obtained a delay of eight days. But nothing can save them from condemnation at the end of this period, unless indeed immense interests be made on their account with the duke. My brother alone deserves your blame, dear friend; let not your anger fall on your affectionate and devoted servant.

"JERONYMO DURAS."

Nisida bit her lips with vexation. She now regretted she had effected the liberation of Francisco before she was convinced that Flora was past the reach of human mercy;—but, in the next moment she resumed her haughty composure, as she said within herself, "My brother may essay all his influence: but mine shall prevail!"

Scarcely had she established this determination in her mind, when the door was burst open, and Francisco—pale, ghastly, and with eyes wandering wildly—staggered into the apartment.

Nisida, who really felt deeply on his account, sprung forward—received him in her arms—and supported him to a seat.

"Oh! Nisida, Nisida!" he exclaimed aloud, in a tone expressive of deep anguish; "what will become of your unfortunate brother? But it is not you who have done this! No—for you were not in Florence at the time which beheld the cruel separation of Flora and myself!"

And, throwing himself on his sister's neck, he burst into tears. He had apostrophized her in the manner just related, not because he fancied that she could hear or understand him; but because he forgot, in the maddening paroxysms of his grief, that Nisida was (as he believed) deaf and dumb! She wound her arms round him—she pressed him to her bosom—she covered his pale forehead with kisses; while her heart bled at the sight of his alarming sorrow.

Suddenly he started up—flung his arms wildly about—and exclaimed, in a frantic voice, "Bring me my steel panoply! give me my burgonet—my cuirass—and my trusty sword;—and let me arouse all Florence to a sense of its infamy in permitting that terrible inquisition to exist! Bring me my armor, I say—the same sword I wielded on the walls of Rhodes—and I will soon gather a trusty band to aid me!"

But, overcome with excitement, he fell forward—dashing his head violently upon the floor, before Nisida could save him. She pealed the silver bell that was placed upon the breakfast-table, and assistance soon came. Francisco was immediately conveyed to his chamber—Dr. Duras was sent for—and on his arrival, he pronounced the young nobleman to be laboring under a violent fever. The proper medical precautions were adopted; and the physician was in a few hours able to declare that Francisco was in no imminent danger, but that several days would elapse ere he could possibly become convalescent. Nisida remained by his bedside, and was most assiduous—most tender—most anxious in her attentions toward him; and when he raved, in his delirium, of Flora and the inquisition, it went to her very heart to think that she was compelled by a stern necessity to abstain from exerting her influence to procure the release of one whose presence would prove of far greater benefit to the sufferer than all the anodynes and drugs which the skill of Dr. Duras might administer!



CHAPTER LXII.

THE SICK-ROOM—FLORENCE IN DISMAY.

It was about an hour past daybreak on the 1st of October,—five days after the incidents related in the three preceding chapters. Nisida, worn out with long watchings and vigils in her brother's chamber, had retired to her own apartment; but not before she had seen Francisco fall into a sleep which, under the influence of a narcotic ordered by the physician, promised to be long and soothing. The lady had not quitted the chamber of the invalid ten minutes, when the door was slightly opened; and some one's looks were plunged rapidly and searchingly into the room:—then the visitor, doubtless satisfied by the result of his survey, stole cautiously in.

He advanced straight up to the table which stood near the bed, drew a small vial from the bosom of his doublet—and poured its crystal contents into the beverage prepared to quench the thirst of the invalid. Then, as he again secured the vial about his person, he murmured, "The medicament of Christian Rosencrux will doubtless work greater wonders than those of Dr. Duras, skilled though the latter be!"

Having thus mused to himself, the visitor shook Francisco gently; and the young count awoke, exclaiming petulantly that he was athirst. A goblet of the beverage containing the Rosicrucian fluid, was immediately conveyed to his lips, and he drank the refreshing draught with eagerness.

The effect was marvelous, indeed;—a sudden tinge of healthy red appeared upon the cheeks a moment before so ashy pale—and fire once more animated the blue eyes—and Francisco recovered complete consciousness and self-possession for the first time since the dread morning when he was attacked with a dangerous illness.

He closed his eyes for a few minutes; and when he opened them again, he was surprised to perceive by his bedside a young, well-attired, and very handsome man, whose countenance appeared to be familiar to him.

"Count of Riverola," said the visitor, bending over him, and speaking in a low but kind tone, "despair not! Succor is at hand—and ere forty-eight hours shall have passed away, your well-beloved Flora will be free!"

Joy lighted up the countenance of the young nobleman, as these delightful words met his ears; and, seizing his consoler's hand, he exclaimed:

"A thousand thanks for this assurance! But, have we not met before?—or was it in those wild dreams which have haunted my imagination that I have seen thee?"

"Yes—we have met before, count," was the reply. "Dost thou not remember Fernand Wagner?"

Francisco passed his hand across his brow, as if to settle his scattered thoughts: then, at the expiration of a few moments, he said: "Oh! yes—I recollect you—I know that I had conceived a great friendship for you, when some strange incident—I cannot remember what, and it is of no matter—parted us!"

"Do not excite yourself too much by racking your memory to decipher the details of the past," returned Wagner. "I dare not stay another minute with you now: therefore listen attentively to what more I have to say. Yield yourself not up to despondency—on the contrary, cherish every hope that is dear to you. Within a few days Flora shall be yours! Yes—solemnly do I assure you that all shall take place as I affirm. But YOUR agency is not needed to insure her liberation: Heaven will make use of OTHER means. Compose your mind, then,—and suffer not yourself to be tortured by vain fears as to the future. Above all, keep my visit to thee a profound secret—intimate not to thy sister Nisida that thou hast seen me. Follow my counsel in all these respects—and happiness is in store for thee!"

Fernand pressed the young count's hand warmly as he terminated these rapidly delivered injunctions, and then retreated from the chamber ere the invalid had time to utter a syllable indicative of his gratitude.

But how different was Francisco now—how different did Nisida find him, on her return to his room, from what he was when she had left him two hours before! Nor less was Dr. Duras astonished, at his next visit, to perceive that his patient had made in those two hours as rapid strides toward convalescence as he could barely have hoped to see accomplished in a week.

In obedience to a hint rapidly conveyed by a signal from Nisida to the physician, the latter touched gently upon the subject of Flora Francatelli; but Francisco, resolute in his endeavors to follow the advice of Fernand Wagner, and to avoid all topics calculated to excite, responded briefly, and immediately spoke on another matter.

But he did not think the less deeply on that interesting subject. No; he cherished the image of his Flora, and the hope of being yet united to her, with an enthusiasm which a love so ardent as his passion alone could feel.

And Nisida congratulated herself on the conviction which she now very naturally entertained, that he had resigned himself to the loss of the young maiden, and was exerting his utmost to banish her altogether from his memory!

Throughout the day Francisco continued to improve rapidly, and on the following morning he was enabled to leave his couch. Indeed, his recovery was so marvelously quick that Dr. Duras considered it to be a perfect phenomenon in the history of medicine; and Nisida looked upon the physician, whom she conceived to be the author of this remarkable change, with unfeigned admiration.

It was verging toward the hour of sunset, the 2d of October, when a rumor of a most alarming nature circulated with the celerity of wild-fire through the city of Florence. At first the report was received with contemptuous incredulity; but by degrees—as circumstances tended to confirm it—as affrighted peasants came flying into the town from their country homes, bearing the dread tidings, the degenerate and voluptuous Florentines gave way to all the terrors which, in such cases, were too well adapted to fill the hearts of an emasculated people with dismay.

For, while the dwellers of the City of Flowers were thinking only of the gay festival which invariably commenced their winter season, while the nobles and wealthy burghers were whiling their time pleasantly in the regilding and decoration of their palaces or mansions, while the duke was projecting splendid banquets, and the members of the council of state were dreaming of recreation and enjoyment, rather than of the duties of office, while, too, preparations were being made for the approaching auto-da-fe—that terrible spectacle which the inquisition annually offered to the morbid tastes of a priest-ridden people—while, in a word, Florence seemed wrapped up in security and peace—at such a moment the astounding intelligence arrived, that a mighty army was within a few hours' march of the sovereign city of Tuscany!

Yes; this was the news that suddenly spread confusion and dismay throughout Florence, the news which told how the Ottoman fleet, for some days past moored off the port of Leghorn, had vomited forth legions, and how the formidable force was approaching at a rapid rate, under the command of the grand vizier in person, the seraskier and sipehsalar of the armies of the sultan!

The moment these things were bruited abroad in the city, Demetrius, the Greek, fled secretly; for he too well understood that his treacherous intentions had, in some unaccountable manner, transpired, and reached the ears of Ibrahim Pasha. Nisida was perfectly astounded; and, for the first time in her life, she felt her energies paralyzed—all her powers of combination suddenly laid prostrate. As for Francisco, he could not help thinking that the invasion of Italy by the Turks was connected with the succor so mysteriously, but confidently promised by Wagner; although he was not only ignorant of the relationship subsisting between the grand vizier and his beloved Flora, but was even unaware of the fact that this high functionary was the same Ibrahim whose prisoner he had been for a few hours on a former occasion in the Island of Rhodes.

The council of state assembled to deliberate upon the proper course which should be adopted at so critical a moment; but when the resources of Florence and the means of resisting the invaders were scrutinized, when it was discovered that there were not three thousand soldiers to defend the place, nor arms sufficient to equip more than fifteen hundred volunteers in addition to the regular force, all idea of attempting to make a stand against an army which was in reality twenty thousand strong, but which the exaggerations of fear had trebled in amount, was ultimately abandoned.

The sun went down, and was succeeded by no illuminations that night. Florence was in mourning. A spell had fallen upon the City of Flowers; her streets were deserted; and within the houses, those who possessed wealth were busily engaged in concealing their gold and jewels in cellars, holes dug in the ground, or at the bottom of wells. The general consternation was terrific indeed; and the solemn stillness which prevailed throughout the town so lately full of animation and happiness was even more dreadful than that which had accompanied the plague two centuries before.

It was near midnight when messengers from the grand vizier, who was now within three miles' march of the city, arrived at the western gate, and demanded admission, that they might obtain an immediate audience of the duke. The request was directly complied with, and the envoys were conducted to the palazzo, where the prince immediately assembled the council of state to receive them, himself presiding.

The audience was in other respects strictly private; but the nature of the interview was soon proved to have been most unexpectedly pacific; for two hours after the reception of the envoys, criers proceeded throughout the city, proclaiming the joyful news that the grand vizier had of his own accord proposed such terms as the council of state had not hesitated to accept.

Thus, at two o'clock in the morning, were the Florentines at first alarmed by hearing the monotonous voices of the criers breaking upon the solemn stillness; but their fear changed into gladness ineffable, ere those functionaries had uttered a dozen words of the proclamation which they were intrusted to make.

What the terms were did not immediately transpire; but two circumstances which occurred ere it was daybreak, and which, though conducted with considerable secrecy, nevertheless soon became generally known—these circumstances, we say, afforded ample scope for comment and gossip.

The first was the occupation of the Riverola Palace by the Ottoman soldiers who had accompanied Demetrius as an escort, and whom he had left in Florence; and the second was the fact that two females, closely muffled up, were removed from the prison of the inquisition, and delivered over to the charge of the grand vizier's messengers, who conveyed them out of the city.

But the curiosity excited by these incidents was absorbed in the general anxiety that was evinced by the Florentine people to feast their eyes with the grand, interesting, and imposing spectacle which the dawn of day revealed to their view.

For, far as the eye could reach, on the western side of Florence, and commencing at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the city, a mass of innumerable tents and pavilions showed where the Ottoman army was encamped! Myriads of banners, of all colors, floated from the tall javelins to which they were affixed before the entrance of the chief officers' tents, and in front of the entire encampment waved, at the summit of a spear planted in the ground, the three crescents, which invariably accompany the march of a Turkish army. The sunbeams glittered on thousands of bright crescents; and the brazen pommels of the mounted sentinels' saddles shone like burnished gold. It was, indeed, a grand and imposing spectacle:—and the din of innumerable voices mingling with the sounds of martial music, reached the ears of those Florentines who, more daring than the rest, advanced nearly up to the outposts of the encampment.

But in the meantime, a scene of profound and touching interest had taken place in the gorgeous pavilion of the grand vizier.

While it was yet dark—and ere that martial panorama of tents and pavilions developed itself to the admiring and astonished eyes of the Florentines—two females, closely muffled in handsome cashmere shawls, which had been presented to them for the purpose, were treading the Ottoman encampment, under the guidance of the messengers to whom they had been consigned.

It is hardly necessary to inform the reader that these females were the elder Signora Francatelli and her beautiful niece Flora.

Their sudden and most unexpected deliverance from the terrible dungeons of the inquisition, and the profound respect with which they were treated by those into whose charge the familiars of the holy office had surrendered them, inspired them with the most lively joy; and their congratulations were expressed by frequent pressures of each other's hands as they proceeded in company with their guides. But they knew not by whom, or how, nor wherefore they had been released—and yet a vague suspicion, founded solely on the fact that their conductors wore the Ottoman garb, that Alessandro must be in some way connected with the matter, had entered their minds. It was, at all events, clear that no harm was intended them, for they were not treated as prisoners, and thus they hastened on in confidence and hope.

It was not until they had left the city some distance behind, that the bright moon showed them a confused mass of white objects in front; and they were both marveling what the strange and unknown spectacle could be, when their party was suddenly challenged by the sentries of an outpost. The leader of the little escort gave the watchword; and now, as the two females drew nearer to the encampment, the mass of white objects became more shapely, until, in a few minutes, the pointed tops of the tents and pavilions stood out in strong relief against the now purple sky.

What could this unusual spectacle mean? They were still in the dungeons of the inquisition when the alarm, caused by an approaching army, had circulated through Florence; and the rumor had not reached their ears. For the first time since the moment of their release they now hung back, and manifested signs of fear.

"Be not terrified, ladies," said the chief of the escort, speaking in excellent Italian; "ye have no cause for apprehension! Before you spread the innumerable tents of the Ottoman army; and it is to the presence of this mighty host that ye are indebted for your freedom."

"But whither are you taking us?" inquired Flora, scarcely reassured.

"To the pavilion of his Highness, Ibrahim-Pasha, the grand vizier of the glorious Sultan Solyman," answered the Turk; "and at the hands of that powerful minister ye will receive naught but honorable and kind treatment."

"Know you, signor," inquired Flora, "if there be in the Ottoman camp a young man who, when a Christian," she added, with a profound sigh, "bore the name of Alessandro Francatelli?"

"There is such a young man," responded the Turkish messenger; "and you will see him presently."

"Oh! is it then to him that we owe our deliverance?" demanded the beauteous maiden, her heart fluttering with varied emotions at the idea of meeting her brother. "Is he attached to the person of that mighty man whom you denominate the grand vizier? and shall we see him in the pavilion of his highness?"

"You will see him in the pavilion of his highness," answered the Turk.

"And the grand vizier himself—is he a good, kind man?" asked Flora. "Is my brother—I mean Alessandro—a favorite with him?"

"I believe that the mighty Ibrahim loves no man more than Alessandro Francatelli, lady," said the Turk, highly amused by these questions which were put to him, although his manner was respectful and calm.

"Then there is a chance that Alessandro will rise in the service of the sultan?" continued Flora, naturally anxious to glean all the information she could respecting her brother.

"There is not a more enviable personage in the imperial service than he whom you style Alessandro Francatelli."

"Heaven be thanked that he is so prosperous, poor boy!" exclaimed the aunt, who had been an attentive listener to the preceding discourse. "But your grand vizier, signor, must be very powerful to have a great army at his disposal."

"The grand vizier, lady," returned the Ottoman envoy, "is second only to the sultan, and in him we see a reflection of the imperial majesty. At a sign from the great and potent Ibrahim every scimiter throughout this host of twenty thousand men would leap from its sheath in readiness to strike where and at whom he might choose to order. Nay, more, lady—he has the power to gather together mighty armies, so numerous that they would inundate Christendom as with a desolating sea. Allah be thanked! there is no limit to the power of the mighty Ibrahim so long as he holdeth the seals of his great office."

The two females made no further observation aloud; but they thought profoundly on all that they had just heard. For in a short time they were to stand in the presence of this puissant chief whom the Ottomans seemed to worship as a god, and who wielded a power which placed him on a level with the proudest potentates in the Christian world.

In the meantime the little party had entered the precincts of the Ottoman encampment, a complete city of tents and pavilions, ranged in the most admirable order, and with all the regularity of streets.

A solemn silence prevailed throughout the camp, interrupted only by the measured pace and the occasional challenge of sentinels.

At length Flora and her aunt perceived, in the clear moonlight, a pavilion loftier, larger, and more magnificent than any they had yet seen. The pinnacle glittered as if it were tipped with a bright star; the roof was of dazzling whiteness; and the sides were of dark velvet, richly embroidered with gold. It stood in the midst of a wide space, the circumjacent tents forming a complete circle about it. Within this inclosure of tents the sentries were posted at very short intervals; and instead of walking up and down, they stood motionless as statues, their mighty scimiters gloaming in the moonlight.

In profound silence did the little party proceed toward the entrance of the vast pavilion, which the females had no difficulty in discerning to be the habitation of the potent and dreaded chief into whose presence they were now repairing.

In front of this splendid tent floated two large banners, each from the summit of a tall javelin, the head of which was of burnished gold. One of these enormous flags was green; the other was blood-red. The first was the sacred standard of the Prophet Mohammed, and accompanied the grand vizier in his capacity of representative and vice-regent of the sultan; and the latter was the banner which was always planted in front of the pavilion inhabited by the seraskier, or commander-in-chief of the Ottoman army.

At the entrance of the vast tent stood four mounted sentinels, horses and men alike so motionless that they seemed to be as many equestrian statues.

"In a few moments," whispered the leader of the little escort to the two females, "you will be in the presence of the grand vizier, who will receive you alone."

"And Alessandro Francatelli?" inquired Flora, in a tone of disappointment, "will he not be there also?"

"Fear not, you shall behold him shortly," answered the Turk; and passing behind the mounted sentinels, he drew aside the velvet curtain, at the same time bidding Flora and her aunt enter the pavilion.

A blaze of light bursting forth from the interior of the magnificent tent dazzled and bewildered them, as the Ottoman gently gushed them onward—for they hung back in vague and groundless alarm.

The curtain was instantly closed behind them; and they now found themselves inside the gorgeous abode of the grand vizier. The pavilion was decorated in the most sumptuous manner. Crystal chandeliers were suspended to the spars which supported the canvas ceiling; and the pillars which supported those spars were gilt and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Rich sofas placed around the sides—vases, some containing flowers and others delicious perfumes—tables laden with refreshments of the most exquisite kind,—in a word, all the evidences of enormous wealth and all the accessories of luxurious splendor were displayed in this sumptuous abode.

At the further end of the pavilion was seated an individual, whom, by the intimation they had already received, and by the magnificence of his attire, Flora and her aunt immediately knew to be the grand vizier. He soon granted them the opportunity they so anxiously awaited, and it was not a great while ere they found themselves completely reassured, and conversing with a freedom which they had hardly hoped would characterize their interview.

But who can describe the wonder and amazement which overwhelmed Flora and her aunt, when, in the person of the grand vizier, was revealed to them the long absent brother and nephew, Alessandro Francatelli!

It is needless to give in detail the events which were narrated in their conversation. After a long and interesting recapitulation of the thrilling events which had attended them thus far, they turned to that more immediate matter which lay nearest their hearts.

When the Count of Riverola at length joined the party, the young nobleman, taking Flora's hand, exclaimed:

"I am anxious to secure this jewel as soon as possible. Our union may be celebrated privately and without useless pomp and ceremony; a few hours hence may see us allied to part no more. I have a friend in Florence—Fernand Wagner——"

"And if he be your friend, count, you cannot possess one more likely to be sincere!" exclaimed the vizier.

"He has, indeed, proved a warm friend to me," continued Francisco. "Two days ago I was stretched upon a bed of sickness—delirious, my mind wandering, and my reason gone——"

"Merciful heavens!" cried Flora, shuddering from head to foot, and contemplating her intended husband with the deepest solicitude.

"Yes, I was in a desperate state," said the count. "But Wagner came—he breathed words of hope in my ears, and I recovered rapidly; so rapidly and so completely that I feel not as if I had ever known indisposition save by name. I was, however, about to observe that there is an oratory in Signor Wagner's mansion; and there may the ceremony be performed. Fernand is, moreover, well acquainted with the language by which the deaf and dumb communicate their ideas; and through friendship for me he will break the tidings of my marriage to my sister."

"Be it as you propose," said the grand vizier; then, after a moment's pause, he added, speaking in a low and mysterious whisper: "and if you will not shrink from the contact of the renegade at the altar of God—a renegade in name only, and not in heart—a renegade to suit his worldly purposes, and not from conviction—then shall I be present at the ceremony. Yes," he continued, perceiving that his aunt, his sister, and the young count surveyed him with mingled pleasure and amazement—"yes, in a deep disguise I will quit the encampment and enter Florence, for it would grieve me deeply to be excluded from the solemn scene."

"Dearest Alessandro—for thus you will permit me still to call you," exclaimed his aunt, "your words have made my happiness complete. Oh! you are still a Christian in heart, thank God!"

"Not for worlds would I that you should be absent from the ceremony which makes your sister the Countess of Riverola!" exclaimed Francisco.

The arrangements so happily come to and so amicably digested, were now to be carried into effect. The expectant bridegroom accordingly took a temporary leave of the vizier, Flora and the aunt, and returned to the city to seek his friend Fernand Wagner, it being understood that those whom he had just left should meet him at that signor's mansion by mid-day.

The morning was now breaking: and every roof top in Florence was crowded with persons anxious to obtain a view of the encampment, as we have stated at the close of the preceding chapter.



CHAPTER LXIII.

THE MANUSCRIPT.

In accordance with the plans detailed in the preceding chapter, Francisco and Flora, accompanied by the good dame Francatelli, and preceded by a suitable guard, now departed from the gorgeous pavilion of the grand vizier, on their way to the mansion of Wagner.

On arriving at the walls of the city, the Ottoman guard left them, and retraced their steps to the Turkish encampment, while our little party proceeded on its way through the now crowded streets, and soon arrived at the residence of Wagner.

With many congratulations did Fernand receive them; and being informed of the purport of their visit, hastened to acquaint his chaplain of the duties that were required of him; and before the sun was an hour higher in the heavens, Francisco, Count of Riverola, and Flora Francatelli were joined together in the indissoluble bonds of wedlock.

It was now, for the first time since his recovery, that the recollection of the solemn oath Francisco had made to his dying father came across his mind—that on that day and that hour in which he was married, he and his bride should visit the secret chamber: and he hurriedly told Wagner that it was of the utmost importance that he should be at the Riverola palace within the hour; and at the same time he requested his kind friend to accompany him.

On arriving at the Riverola palace, the party were instantly admitted, notwithstanding that the Turkish soldiers placed there by the grand vizier still guarded the gates: and Francisco proceeded alone to his sister's apartment, where he found her sitting, busied in conjecturing the cause of her recent detention—for Ibrahim, on the completion of the marriage ceremony, of which he had been an unseen observer, had given orders to free her from all restraint on her person.

On perceiving Francisco, Nisida tenderly embraced him; and by signs he informed her that a person wished to be admitted to her presence. Having signified her acquiescence, Francisco retired, and in a few moments returned, leading by the hand his blushing bride, while Wagner followed, a few paces in the rear.

No sooner had Nisida's eyes fallen on the form of Flora, than she started from her seat, her eyes flashing with concentrated hate, and her haughty lip curled in withering contempt, for well she guessed the purport of her visit: but the next moment her eyes fell on the advancing form of her adored Wagner—and those eyes, lit up as with the fires of hell, lost their demoniac glare in the beams of love which gleamed in their dark depths; and her lip of scorn was changed into an enchanting smile of the sweetest welcome—a transition from hate to love, a change of feelings as well as features of which woman, loving woman, alone is capable—and the next moment, regardless of the presence of Francisco and Flora, she rushed into the arms of her long-lost, her adored Wagner.

* * * * *

Nisida was now acquainted with the marriage of her brother, the secret chamber had been visited, the manuscript brought forth to be read; but one of the party that but a few moments before occupied that room was no more—Fernand Wagner was dead! True to the letter were the words of the founder of the order of the Rosy Cross, that "the spell which the Evil One hath cast upon thee, Fernand Wagner, shall be broken only on that day and that hour when thine eyes shall behold the bleached skeletons of two innocent victims suspended to the same beam."

Flora and Francisco had visited the secret chamber alone, but the scream of horror which came from the bride on seeing the spectacle which there presented itself to her, brought Wagner and Nisida to their side. Instantly on seeing the skeletons, the prophecy of Rosencrux rushed on the mind of Wagner; a complete revolution came over his whole frame, beautiful visions floated before his eyes, as of angels waiting to receive him and herald him to eternal glory; then stretching forth his arms, as if to embrace something immaterial, he fell heavily to the earth, and in a few moments he had breathed his last in the arms of Nisida.

* * * * *

We will now proceed to the reading of the manuscript, and pass over a detail of the indescribable agony that rent the heart of Nisida on seeing her beloved Wagner a corpse, and the revulsion of her feelings on beholding the loathsome change that came over the face and form of the once god-like Fernand, a repetition of which would grate too harshly on the feelings of the reader.

THE MANUSCRIPT.

"In order that you, Francisco—and she who as your bride, shall accompany you on your visit to the secret cabinet wherein you are destined to find this manuscript—in order, I say, that you may both fully comprehend the meaning of the strange and frightful spectacle there prepared to meet your eyes, it is necessary that I should enter into a full and perfect detail of certain circumstances, the study of which will, I hope, prove beneficial to the lady whom you may honor with the proud name of Riverola.

"In the year 1494 I visited Naples on certain pecuniary business, an intimation of which I found amongst the private papers of my father, who had died about ten months previously. I was then just one-and-twenty, and had not as yet experienced the influence of the tender passion. I had found the ladies of Florence so inveterately given to intrigue, and had seen so many instances in which the best and most affectionate of husbands were grossly deceived by their wives, that I had not only conceived an abhorrence at the idea of linking my fortunes with one of my own countrywomen, but even made a solemn vow that if ever I married, my choice should not fall upon a Tuscan. It was with such impressions as these that I quitted Florence on the business to which I have alluded: and I cared not if I never returned thither—so shallow, heartless, and superficial did its gay society appear to me.

"On my arrival at Naples I assumed the name of Cornari, and, representing myself as a young man of humble birth and moderate fortune, mixed in the best society that would receive a stranger of such poor pretensions. I had already learned at Florence that the fair sex are invariably dazzled by titles and riches; and I had a curiosity to try whether I should be at all sought after when apparently unpossessed of such qualifications. Not that I had any serious thoughts of matrimony; for I was far from being so romantic as to suppose that any beautiful lady of high birth would fall in love with me so long as I passed for plain Signor Cornari. No; it was merely a whim of mine—would that I had never undertaken to gratify it.

"I was altogether unattended by any retinue, having quitted Florence with only a single valet, who died of sudden illness on the road. Thus did I enter Naples alone, with my package of necessaries fastened to the saddle of the steed that bore me. I put up at a small, but respectable hostel; and the first few days of my residence at the Neapolitan capital were passed in making inquiries concerning the individual whose large debt to my deceased father had been the principal cause of my journey thither.

"I found him, at length, but perceiving that he was totally unable to liquidate the claim upon him, I did not discover my real name, and took my leave, resolving to think no more of the matter.

"Returning to the inn, I happened to pass through one of the most squalid and miserable parts of the city, when my attention was suddenly fixed upon the most charming female figure I had ever seen in my life. The object of my interest was respectably but plainly clad; indeed, she appeared to belong to the class of petty tradespeople. Her form was most perfect in its symmetry; her gait was peculiarly graceful, and her manners were evidently modest and reserved: for she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but pursued her way with all the unobtrusiveness of strict propriety. I longed to behold her face; and, quickening my steps, presently passed her. I then had an opportunity of beholding the most beautiful countenance that ever adorned a woman. Heaven seemed to smile through the mirror of her mild black eyes; and there was such an indescribable sweetness in the general expression of her face, that it might have served a limner to copy for the countenance of an angel! She saw that I gazed intently upon her, and instantly turned aside into another street; for I should observe that females of the lower orders in Naples are not permitted to wear veils.

"I stood looking after her until she was lost to my view; and then I went slowly back to the inn, my mind full of the image of the beautiful unknown.

"Day after day did I rove through that same quarter of the city in the hope of meeting her again; and every evening did I return to my lonely chamber, chagrined and disappointed. My spirits sank, my appetite fled, and I grew restless and melancholy. At length I one morning beheld her in the flower-market, and I stood gazing on her with such enthusiastic, and yet such respectful admiration, that though she turned away, still methought it was not with a feeling of resentment.

"I was transfixed to the spot for some minutes, and it was not until she had disappeared amidst the crowd gathered in that quarter, that I could so collect my scattered thoughts as to curse my folly for having omitted such an opportunity of accosting her. I however inquired of an old woman of whom she had purchased some flowers, who she was; but all the information I could glean was, that she had recently been in the habit of buying a few flowers every Wednesday of that same old woman. I went away more contented than I had felt for many days, because I now felt certain that I knew where to meet the lovely creature again. Nevertheless, during the six succeeding days I rambled about the flower market and the squalid quarter of the city where I had first seen her, but my search was unsuccessful; and the greater the disappointment I experienced, the more powerful grew my love. Yes, it was indeed love which I now felt, for the first time, and for a being to whom I had never spoken—whom I had only seen twice, and on these occasions only for a few minutes, and whom I knew, by her garb, to belong to the poorer class. But on the following Wednesday I saw her for the third time; and when she beheld me standing near the old woman's flower stall, she appeared vexed and surprised, and was about to turn away. I however approached her, besought her to accept of the choicest nosegay which I had been able to find, and continued to speak to her in so ardent, yet respectful a manner, that she no longer viewed me with resentment, but with something approaching to interest. And if I had been charmed by her beauty when as yet I had seen her at a comparative distance, how enraptured was I now by a nearer contemplation of that heavenly countenance.

"I assured her that her image had never been absent from my heart since first I saw her, that I should never know peace or happiness again until she would give me some hope, and that I would sooner die than have her construe my words into an insult. She was touched by the earnestness and evident sincerity of my manner; and, encouraged by her silence, I proceeded hastily to inform her that my name was Cornari, that I was a young man of humble birth, but that I possessed a modest competency, and was my own master. I then pressed her to accept my nosegay; but, suddenly bursting into tears, she exclaimed—

"'O, signor, you know not whom you have thus honored with your notice,' and hurried away, leaving me absolutely stupefied with astonishment and grief. It immediately struck me that she was a lost and degraded creature, who dared not respond to a virtuous love. But a few moments' reflection told me that such innocence, such artlessness, such candor never could be assumed—never feigned; no, they were most natural! And this conviction, added to the intense curiosity which now inspired me to fathom the mystery of her singular remark, rendered me more anxious than ever to meet with her again. Several weeks passed without seeing the gratification of my wish; and I was becoming seriously ill with disappointment and defeated hope, when accident led me to encounter her once more. She would have avoided me, but I absolutely compelled her to stop. Seizing her hand, I said,—

"'Look at me—behold to what I am reduced—mark these pale and sunken cheeks, and have pity on me!'

"'And I, too,' she murmured, 'have been very miserable since we last met.'

"'Then you have thought of me?' I exclaimed, retaining her hand still in mine, and reading love in the depths of her large dark eyes.

"'I have,' she answered bitterly, withdrawing her hand at the same time; then in a tone of deep anguish she added, 'I implore you to let me proceed on my way; and if you value your own happiness you will never seek to see me more.'

"'But my happiness depends on seeing you often,' I exclaimed; 'and if the offer of an honest heart be acceptable, I have that to give.'

"She shuddered dreadfully from head to foot.

"'Surely you are not married already?' I said, rendered desperate by her strange and incomprehensible manner.

"'I married!' she absolutely shrieked forth. Then perceiving that I was perfectly amazed and horrified by the wild vehemence of her ejaculations, she said in a subdued, melancholy tone, 'I adjure you to think of me no more.'

"'Listen, beauteous stranger,' I exclaimed; 'I love and adore you. My happiness is at stake. Repeat that cruel adjuration, and you inflict a death-blow. If I be loathsome to your sight, tell me so; but leave me not a prey to the most horrible suspense. If you have a father, I will accompany you to him and make honorable proposals.'

"'My father!' she murmured, while her countenance was suddenly swept by a passing expression of anguish so intense that I began to tremble for her reason.

"I implored her to speak candidly and openly, and not in brief sentences of such ominous mystery. She scarcely appeared to listen to my words, but seemed totally absorbed in the mental contemplation of a deeply seated woe. At length she suddenly turned her large dark eyes upon me, and said in a low, plaintive, profoundly touching tone:

"'Signor Cornari, again I adjure you to think of me no more. But for my own sake I would not have you believe that unmaidenly conduct on my part is the cause of the solemn prayer I thus make to you. No, no; I have naught wherewith I can reproach myself; but there are reasons of terrible import that compel me to address you in this manner. Nevertheless,' she added, more slowly and hesitatingly, 'if you really should continue to entertain so deep an interest in me as to render you desirous to hear the last explanation from my lips, then may you rely upon meeting me on this spot, and at the same hour, fifteen days hence.'

"She then hurried away. How that fortnight passed I can scarcely tell. To me it appeared an age. I was deeply, madly enamored of that strange, beautiful, and apparently conscientious being; and the mystery which involved her threw around her a halo of interest that fanned the flame of my passion. I was prepared to make any sacrifice rather than abandon all hope of calling her my own. The proud title of Riverola was as nothing in my estimation when weighed in the balance against her charms—her bewitching manner—her soft, retiring modesty. I moreover flattered myself that I was not indifferent to her; and I loved her all the more sincerely because I reflected that if she gave her heart to me, it would be to the poor and humble Cornari, and not to the rich and mighty Lord of Riverola.

"At length the day—the memorable day—came; and she failed not to keep her appointment. She was pale—very pale—but exquisitely beautiful; and she smiled in spite of herself when she beheld me. She endeavored to conceal her emotions, but she could not altogether subdue the evidence of that gratification which my presence caused her.

"'You have disregarded my most earnest prayer,' she said, in a low and agitated tone.

"'My happiness depends upon you,' I answered; 'in the name of Heaven keep me not in suspense; but tell me, can you and will you be mine?'

"'I could be thine, but I dare not,' she replied, in a voice scarcely audible.

"'Reveal to me the meaning of this strange contradiction, I implore you!' said I, again a prey to the most torturing suspense. 'Do you love another?'

"'Did I love another,' she exclaimed, withdrawing the hand which I had taken, 'I should not be here this day.'

"'Pardon me,' I cried; 'I would not offend you for worlds! If you do not love another, can you love me?'

"Again she allowed me to take her hand; and this concession, together with the rapid but eloquent glance she threw upon me, was the answer to my question.

"'Then, if you can love me,' I urged, 'why cannot you be mine?'

"'Because,' she replied, in that tone of bitterness which did me harm to hear it, 'you are born of parents whose name and whose calling you dare mention; whereas you would loathe me as much as you now declare that you love me, were you to learn who my father is! For mother, alas! I have none; she has been dead many years!' And tears streamed down her cheeks. I also wept, so deeply did I sympathize with her.

"'Beloved girl,' I exclaimed, 'you wrong me! What is it to me if your father be the veriest wretch, the greatest criminal that crawls upon the face of the earth, so long as you are pure and innocent?'"

"'No, no,' she cried hastily, 'you misunderstand me. There breathes not a more upright man than my father.'

"'Then wherefore should I be ashamed to own my marriage with his daughter?' I asked in an impassioned manner.

"'Because,' she said, in a tone of such intense anguish that it rent my heart as she began to speak; 'because,' she repeated slowly and emphatically, 'he is viewed with abhorrence by that world which is so unjust; for that which constitutes the stigma is hereditary office in his family—an office that he dares not vacate under pain of death; and now you can too well comprehend that my sire is the PUBLIC EXECUTIONER OF NAPLES!'

"This announcement came upon me like a thunderbolt. I turned sick at heart—my eyes grew dim—my brain whirled—I staggered and should have fallen had I not come in contact with a wall. It appeared to me afterward that sobs of ineffable agony fell upon my ears, while I was yet in a state of semi-stupefaction—and methought likewise that a delicate, soft hand pressed mine convulsively for a moment. Certain it was, that when I recovered my presence of mind, when I was enabled to collect my scattered thoughts, the executioner's daughter was no longer near me. I was in despair at the revelation which had been made—overwhelmed with grief, too, at having suffered her thus to depart—for I feared that I should never see her more. Before me was my hopeless love, behind me, like an evil dream, was the astounding announcement which still rang in my ears, though breathed in such soft and plaintive tones! Three or four minutes were wasted in the struggles of conflicting thoughts, ere I was sufficiently master of myself to remember that I might still overtake the maiden who had fled from me. It struck me that her father's dwelling must be near the criminal prison; and this was in the squalid quarter of the town where I had first encountered her. Thither I sped—into the dark streets, so perilous after dusk, I plunged; and at length I overtook the object of my affection, just as she was skirting the very wall of the prison. I seized her by the hand and implored her to forgive me for the manner in which I had received the last explanation to which I had urged her.

"'It was natural that you should shrink in loathing from the bare idea,' she said, in a tone which rent my heart. 'And now leave me, signor; for further conversation between us is useless.'

"'No,' I exclaimed; 'I will not leave you until I shall have exacted from you a promise that you will be mine, and only mine! For I could not live without you; and most unjust should I be, most unworthy of the name of a man, if I were to allow a contemptible prejudice to stand in the way of my happiness.'

"She returned no answer, but the rapidity of her breathing and the ill subdued sobs which interrupted her respiration at short intervals, convinced me that a fierce struggle was taking place within her bosom. For it was now quite dark and I could not see her face; the hand, however, which I held clasped in my own, trembled violently.

"'Beautiful maiden,' I said after a long pause, 'wherefore do you not reply to me? Were I the proudest peer in Christendom, I would sacrifice every consideration of rank and family for your sake. What more can man say? What more can he do?'

"'Signor Cornari,' she answered at length, 'prudence tells me to fly from you; but my heart prompts me to remain. Alas! I feel that the latter feeling is dominant within me!'

"'And you will be mine?' I demanded eagerly.

"'Thine forever!' she murmured, her head sinking upon my breast.

"But I shall not dwell unnecessarily on this portion of my narrative. Suffice it to say we parted, having arranged another meeting for the next evening. It was on this occasion that I said to her:

"'Vitangela, I have thought profoundly on all that passed between us yesterday; and I am more than ever determined to make you my wife. Let us away to your father, and demand his consent to our union.'

"'Stay,' she said, in an emphatic tone, 'and hear me patiently ere you either renew the promise to wed me, or reiterate your desire to seek my father. You must know,' she continued, while I listened with painful suspense, 'that my father will not oppose a step in which his daughter's happiness is involved. But the very moment that sees our hands joined, will behold the registry of the marriage in the book kept by the lieutenant of police; and thereby will be constituted a record of the name of one who, if need be, must assume the functions of that office which my sire now fills.'

"'What mean you, Vitangela?' I demanded, horrified by the dim yet ominous significance of these horrible words.

"'I mean,' she continued, 'that the terrible post of public executioner must remain in our family while it exists; and those who form marriages with us, are considered to enter into our family. When my father dies, my brother will succeed him, but should my brother die without leaving issue, or having a son to take his place, you, signor, if you become my husband, will be forced to assume the terrible office.'

"'But I am not a Neapolitan,' I exclaimed; 'and I should hope that when we are united, you will not insist upon dwelling in Naples.'

"'I would give worlds to leave this odious city,' she said, emphatically.

"'Nothing detains me here another day, nor another hour,' I cried; 'let the priest unite our hands, and we forthwith set off for Florence. But why should not our marriage take place privately, unknown even to your father? and in that case no entry could be made in the books of the lieutenant of police.'

"'You have expressed that desire which I myself feared to utter, lest you should think it unmaidenly,' she murmured. 'For your sake I will quit home and kindred without further hesitation.'

"I was rejoiced at this proof of affection and confidence on her part; and it was arranged between us that we should be married on the ensuing evening, and in the most private way possible.

"Before we parted, however, I drew from her a solemn pledge that, when once she had become my wife, she would never even allude to her family—that she would not communicate to them the name of her husband nor the place of our abode, under any circumstance—in a word, that she would consider her father and brother as dead to her,—and she to them.

"With streaming eyes and sobbing heart she gave the sacred promise I required, ratifying it with an oath which I made her repeat to my dictation.

"On the ensuing evening Vitangela met me according to appointment, and it was then I revealed to her my real name and rank.

"'Dearest girl,' I said, 'you gave me your heart, believing me to be a poor and humble individual; and you have consented to become my wife and abandon home and kindred for my sake. Profoundly then do I rejoice that it is in my power to elevate you to a position of which your beauty, your amiability and your virtue render you so eminently worthy; and in my own native Florence, no lady will be more courted, nor treated with greater distinction than the Countess of Riverola.'

"She uttered an exclamation of sorrow and would have fallen to the ground if I had not supported her.

"'Oh!' she murmured, 'I would have been happier were you indeed the humble Signor Cornari!'

"'No; think not thus,' I urged, 'wealth and rank are two powerful aids to happiness in this life. But at all events; my beloved Vitangela, you now recognize more than ever the paramount necessity which induces you to maintain inviolate your solemn vow of yesterday.'

"'I require no such inducement to compel me to keep that pledge,' she answered. 'Think you that I would bring disgrace on the name, whether humble or lofty, with which you have proposed to honor me? Oh! no—never, never!"

"I embraced her fondly; and we proceeded to the dwelling of a priest, by whom our hands were united in the oratory attached to his abode. At daybreak we quitted Naples, and in due time we reached Florence, where my bride was received with enthusiastic welcome by all the friends of the Riverola family. My happiness appeared to have been established on a solid foundation by this alliance; and the birth of Nisida in 1495—just one year after the marriage—was a bond which seemed to unite our hearts the more closely if possible. Indeed, I can safely assert that not a harsh word ever passed between us, nor did aught occur to mar our complete felicity for years after our union. In 1500, however, a circumstance took place which proved to be the first link in the chain of incidents destined to wield a dire influence over my happiness. It was in the month of April of that year—oh! how indelibly is the detested date fixed on my memory—the Duke Piero de Medici gave a grand entertainment to all the aristocracy of Florence. The banquet was of the most excellent description; and the gardens of the palace were brilliantly illuminated. The days of Lorenzo the Magnificent seemed to have been revived for a short period by his degenerate descendant. All the beauty and rank of the republic were assembled at this festival; but no lady was more admired for the chaste elegance of her attire, the modest dignity of her deportment, and the loveliness of her person, than Vitangela, Countess of Riverola. After the banquet the company proceeded to the gardens, where bands of music were stationed, and while some indulged in the exhilarating dance, others sauntered through the brilliantly lighted avenues. I need not inform you that no husband, unless he were anxious to draw down upon himself the ridicule which attaches itself to extreme uxoriousness, would remain linked to his wife's side all the evening at such an entertainment as the one of which I am speaking. I was therefore separated from the countess, whom I left in an arbor with some other ladies, and I joined the group which had assembled around the prince. I know not exactly how it was I happened to quit my companions, after a lively conversation which had probably lasted about an hour; certain, however, it is that before midnight I was proceeding alone down a long avenue in which utter darkness reigned, but outside of which the illuminations shone brilliantly.

"Suddenly I heard voices near me; and one of them appeared to be that of the Countess of Riverola—but they were speaking in so subdued a tone that I was by no means confident in my suspicion. The voices approached; and a sentiment of curiosity, unaccountable at the time, as I believed Vitangela to be purity itself, impelled me to listen more attentively. To conceal myself was not necessary; I had to remain perfectly still for my presence to be unknown, utter darkness prevailing in the avenue. The persons who were conversing advanced.

"'You know,' said the soft and whispering voice which I believed to be that of my wife, 'you know how sincerely, how tenderly I love you, and what a frightful risk I run in according you thus a few moments' private discourse!'

"The voice of a man made some reply, the words of which did not reach my ears; then the pair stopped and I heard the billing sound of kisses. O! how my blood boiled in my veins! I grasped the handle of my sword—but I was nailed to the spot—my state of mind was such that though I longed—I thirsted for vengeance—yet was I powerless—motionless—paralyzed. To the sound of kisses succeeded those of sobbing and of grief on the part of the lady whose voice had produced such a terrible effect upon me.

"'Holy Virgin!' I thought, 'she deplores the fate that chains her to her husband! she weeps because she has not courage to fly with her lover!' and now I experienced just the same sensations as those which stunned and stupefied me on that evening at Naples when I first heard that Vitangela was the child of the public executioner. Several minutes must have passed while I was in this condition of comparative insensibility; or rather while I was a prey to the stunning conviction that I was deceived by her whom I had loved so well and deemed so pure. When I awoke from that dread stupor all was still in the dark avenue; not a footstep, not a whispering voice was heard. I hurried along amidst the trees, my soul racked with the cruelest suspicions. And yet I was not confident that it was positively my wife's voice that I had heard; and the more I pondered on the circumstance, the more anxious was I to arrive at the conviction that I had indeed been deceived by some voice closely resembling hers. I accordingly hurried back to the arbor where I had last seen her in the company of several Florentine ladies. Joy animated my soul when I beheld Vitangela seated in that arbor, and in the very spot, too, where I had beheld her upward of an hour previously. But she was now alone.

"'Where are your friends?' I asked, in a kind tone, as I approached and gently took her hand.

"'Indeed I know not,' she replied, casting a hurried glance around, and now appearing surprised to find that there was not another lady near her. She seemed confused; and I also observed that she had been weeping very recently. The joy which had for a moment animated me, was now succeeded by a sudden chill that went to my heart death-like—icy. But, subduing my emotion, I said:

"'Your ladyship has not surely remained here ever since I last saw you, more than an hour ago?'

"'Yes,' she responded, without daring to raise her eyes to meet mine. I knew that she lied, most foully lied: her confusion, her whole manner betrayed her. But I exercised a powerful mastery over my mind; the suspicion which I had all along entertained was strengthened greatly, but not altogether confirmed; and I resolved to wait for confirmation ere I allowed my vengeance to burst forth. Moreover, it was necessary to discover who the gallant might be—the favored one who had superseded me in the affections of Vitangela! I, however, promised myself that when once my information was complete, my revenge should be terrible; and this resolution served as a solace for the moment, and as an inducement for me to conceal alike the suspicions I had imbibed and the dreadful pain they had caused me.

"Presenting my hand, therefore, to Vitangela, I escorted her to that part of the ground where the company were now assembled, and where I hoped that some accident might make known to me the person of the gallant with whom, as I supposed, she had walked in the avenue. Anxiously, but unsuspected, did I watch the manner of the countess every time she returned the salutation of the various nobles and cavaliers whom we encountered in our walk; but not a blush, not a sign of confusion on her part, not one rapidly dealt, but significant glance, afforded me the clew I so ardently sought. And yet it struck me that she often cast furtive and uneasy, or rather searching looks hither and thither, as if to seek and single out some one individual in the multitudes moving about the illuminated gardens. She was certainly pre-occupied, and even mournful, but I affected not to observe that a cloud hung over her spirits, and in order to throw her completely off her guard, I talked and laughed quite as gayly as was my wont. To be brief, the festivities terminated a little before sunrise, and I conducted the countess back to our mansion. From that night forth I maintained the strictest watch upon her conduct and proceedings. I appointed Margaretha, the mother of my page Antonio, to act the spy upon her; but weeks and months passed, and nothing occurred to confirm the terrible suspicion that haunted me night and day. I strove to banish that suspicion from my mind—Heaven knows how hard I tried to crush it. But it was immortal—and it beset me as if it were the ghost of some victim I had ruthlessly murdered. Vitangela saw that my manner had somewhat changed toward her, and she frequently questioned me on the subject. I, however, gave her evasive answers, for I should have been ashamed to acknowledge my suspicion if it were false, and it was only by keeping her off her guard I should receive confirmation if it were true. Thus nearly nine months passed away from the date of the ducal banquet, and then you, Francisco, were born. The presence of an heir to my name and wealth was a subject of much congratulation on the part of my friends; but to me it was a source of torturing doubts and racking fears. You never bore the least—no, not the least resemblance, either physical or mental, to me; whereas the very reverse was the case with Nisida, even in her infancy. From the moment of your birth—from the first instant that I beheld you in the nurse's arms—the most agonizing feelings took possession of my soul. Were you indeed my son?—or were you the pledge of adulterous love? Merciful heavens! in remembering all I suffered when the terrible thoughts oppressed me, I wonder that you, Francisco, should now be alive—that I did not strangle you as you lay in your cradle. And, oh God! how dearly I could have loved you, Francisco, had I felt the same confidence in your paternity as in that of your sister Nisida! But no—all was at least doubt and uncertainty in that respect—and, as your cast of features and physical characteristics developed themselves, that hideous doubt and that racking uncertainty increased until there were times when I was nearly goaded to do some desperate deed. Those mild blue eyes—that rich brown hair—that feminine softness of expression which marked your face belonged not to the family of Riverola!

"Time wore on, and my unhappiness increased. I suspected my wife, yet dared not proclaim the suspicion. I sought to give her back my love, but was utterly unable to subdue the dark thoughts and crush the maddening uncertainties that agitated my soul. At last I was sinking into a state of morbid melancholy, when an incident occurred which revived all the energies of my mind. It was in 1505—Nisida being then ten years old, and you, Francisco, four—when Margaretha informed me one evening that the countess had received a letter which had thrown her into a state of considerable agitation, and which she had immediately burned. By questioning the porter at the gate of the mansion, I learnt that the person who delivered the letter was a tall, handsome man of about thirty-two, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a somewhat feminine expression of countenance. Holy Virgin! this must be the gallant—the paramour of my wife—the father of the boy on whom the law compelled me to bestow my own name. Such were the ideas that immediately struck me; and I now prepared for vengeance. Margaretha watched my wife narrowly, and on the evening following the one on which the letter had been delivered, Vitangela was seen to secure a heavy bag of gold about her person, and quit the mansion by the secret staircase of her apartment—that apartment which is now the sleeping-place of your sister Nisida.

"Margaretha followed the countess to an obscure street, at the corner of which the guilty woman encountered a tall person, enveloped in a cloak, and who was evidently waiting for her. To him she gave the bag of gold, and they embraced each other tenderly. Then they separated—the countess returning home, unconscious that a spy watched her movements. Margaretha reported all that had occurred to me; and I bade her redouble her attention in watching her mistress. Now that the lover is once more in this city, I thought, and well provided with my gold to pursue his extravagance, there will soon be another meeting—and then for vengeance such as an Italian must have. But weeks and months again passed without affording the opportunity which I craved; yet I knew that the day must come—and I could tutor myself to await its arrival, if not with patience, at least with so much outward composure as to lull the countess into belief of perfect security.

"Yes, weeks and months passed away, ay, and years, too, and still I nursed my hopes and projects of vengeance, the craving for which increased with the lapse of time.

"And now I come to the grand, the terrible, the main incident in this narrative. It was late one night, in the month of January, 1510, Nisida being then fifteen and thou, Francisco, nine, that Margaretha came to me in my own apartment and informed me that she had seen the tall gallant traverse the garden hastily and obtain admission into the countess' chamber by means of the secret staircase. The hour for vengeance had at length come. Margaretha was instantly dispatched to advise two bravoes whose services I had long secured for the occasion, that the moment had arrived when they were to do the work for which they had been so well paid in advance, and by the faithful performance of which they would still further enrich themselves. Within half an hour all the arrangements were completed. Margaretha had retired to her own chamber and the bravoes were concealed with me in the garden. Nor had we long to wait. The private door opened shortly, and two persons appeared on the threshold. The night was clear and beautiful, and from my hiding-place I could discern the fondness of the embrace that marked their parting. And they parted, too, never to meet again in this life!

"Vitangela closed the door—and her lover was passing rapidly along amidst the trees in the garden, when a dagger suddenly drank his heart's blood. That dagger was mine, and wielded by my hand! He fell without a groan—dead, stone-dead at my feet. Half of my vengeance was now accomplished; the other half was yet to be consummated. Without a moment's unnecessary delay the corpse was conveyed to a cellar beneath the northern wing of the mansion: and the two bravoes then hastened, to Vitangela's chamber, into which they obtained admission by forcing the door of the private staircase. In pursuance of the orders which they had received from me, they bound and gagged her, and conveyed her through the garden to the very cellar where, by the light of a gloomy lamp, she beheld her husband standing close by a corpse!

"'Bring her near!' I exclaimed, unmoved by the looks of indescribable horror which she threw around.

"When her eyes caught sight of the countenance of that lifeless being, they remained fixed with frenzied wildness in their sockets, and even if there had been no gag between her teeth, I do not believe that she could have uttered a syllable. And now commenced the second act in this appalling tragedy! While one of the bravoes held the countess in his iron grasp, in such a manner that she could not avert her head, the other, who had once been a surgeon, tore away the garments from the corpse, and commenced the task which I had before assigned to him. And as the merciless scalpel hacked and hewed away at the still almost palpitating flesh of the murdered man, in whose breast the dagger remained deeply buried,—a ferocious joy—a savage, hyena-like triumph filled my soul; and I experienced no remorse for the deed I had done! Far—very far from that—for as the work progressed, I exclaimed—

"'Behold, Vitangela, how the scalpel hews that form so loved by thee! Now hack away at the countenance—deface that beauty—pick out those mild blue eyes!'—and I laughed madly!

"The countess fainted, and I ordered her to be carried back to her apartment, where Margaretha awaited her. Indeed I had naturally foreseen that insensibility would result from the appalling spectacle which I compelled my wife to witness: and Margaretha was prepared to breathe dreadful menaces in her ears the moment she should recover—menaces of death to herself and both her children if she should reveal, even to her father confessor, one tittle of the scene which that night had been enacted! The surgeon-bravo did his work bravely; and the man who had dishonored me was reduced to naught save a skeleton! The flesh and the garments were buried deep in the cellar; the skeleton was conveyed to my own chamber, and suspended to a beam in the closet where you, Francisco, and your bride, are destined to behold it—ALONG WITH ANOTHER!

"My vengeance was thus far gratified—the bravos were dismissed, and I locked myself up in my chamber for several days, to brood upon all I had done, and occasionally to feast my eyes with the grim remains of him who had dared to love my wife. During those days of seclusion I would see no one save the servant who brought me my meals. From him I learnt that the countess was dangerously ill—that she was indeed dying, and that she besought me to visit her if only for a moment. But I refused—implacably refused. I was convinced that she craved my forgiveness; and that I could not give.

"Dr. Duras, who attended upon her, came to the door of my chamber and implored me to grant him an interview:—then Nisida sought a similar boon; but I was deaf to each and all.

"Yes—for there was still a being on whom I yet longed to wreak my vengeance;—and that being was yourself, Francisco? I looked upon you as the living evidence of my dishonor—the memorial of your mother's boundless guilt. But I recoiled in horror from the idea of staining my hands with the blood of a little child—yet I feared if I came near you—if I saw your clinging affectionately to Vitangela—if I heard you innocently and unconsciously mock me by calling me 'father!'—I felt I should be unable to restrain the fury of my wrath!

"I know not how long I should have remained in the seclusion of my own chamber—perhaps weeks and months, but one morning shortly after daybreak, I was informed by the only servant whom I would admit near me, that the countess had breathed her last during the night, and that Nisida was so deeply affected by her mother's death, that she, poor girl, was dangerously ill. Then I became frantic on account of my daughter; and I quitted my apartment, not only to see that proper aid was administered to her, but to complete the scheme of vengeance which I had originally formed. Thus, in the first place, Dr. Duras was enjoined to take up his abode altogether in the Riverola Palace, so long as Nisida should require his services; and, on the other hand, a splendid funeral was ordered for the Countess Riverola. But Vitangela's remains went not in the velvet-covered coffin to the family vault;—no—her flesh was buried in the same soil where rotted the flesh of her paramour—and her skeleton was suspended from the same beam to which his bones had been already hung. For I thought within myself: 'This is the first time that the wife of a Count of Riverola has ever brought dishonor and disgrace upon her husband; and I will take care that it shall be the last. To Nisida will I leave all my estates—all my wealth, save a miserable pittance as an inheritance for the bastard Francisco. She shall inherit the title, and the man on whom she may confer her hand shall be the next Count of Riverola. The wedding-day will be marked by a revelation of the mystery of this cabinet; and the awful spectacle will teach him, whoever he may be, to watch his wife narrowly—and will teach her what it is to prove unfaithful to a fond husband! To both, the lesson will be as useful as the manner of conveying it will be frightful, and they will hand down the tradition to future scions of the Riverola family. Francisco, too, shall learn the secrets of the cabinet; he shall be taught why he is disinherited—why I have hated him: and thus even from the other world shall the spirits of the vile paramour and the adulterous wife behold the consequences of their crime perpetuated in this.'

"Such were my thoughts—such were my intentions. But an appalling calamity forced me to change my views. Nisida, after a long and painful illness, became deaf and dumb; and Dr. Duras gave me no hope of the restoration of her lost faculties.

"Terrible visitation! Then was it that I reasoned with myself—that I deliberated long and earnestly upon the course which I should pursue. It was improbable that, afflicted as Nisida was, she would ever marry; and I felt grieved, deeply grieved, to think that you, Francisco, being disinherited, and Nisida remaining single, the proud title of Riverola would become extinct; I therefore resolved on the less painful alternative of disinheriting you altogether; and I accordingly made a will by which I left you the estates, with the contingent title Count of Riverola, under certain conditions which might yet alienate both property and rank from you, and endow therewith your sister Nisida. For should she recover the faculties of speech and hearing by the time she shall have attained the age of thirty-six, she will yet be marriageable and may have issue; but should that era in her life pass, and she still be deaf and dumb, all hope of her recovery will be dead!

"Thus if she still be so deeply afflicted at that age, you, Francisco, will inherit the vast estates and the lordly title which, through the circumstances of your birth, it grieves me to believe will ever devolve upon you.

"Such were my motives for making that will which you are destined to hear read, doubtless before the time comes for you to peruse this manuscript. And having made that will, and experiencing the sad certainty that my unfortunate daughter will never become qualified to inherit my title and fortune, but that the name of Riverola must be perpetuated through your marriage, I have determined that to you and to your bride alone shall the dread secrets of the cabinet be revealed."

Thus terminated the manuscript.

* * * * *

Powerful in meaning and strong in expression as the English language may be rendered by one who has the least experience in the proper combination of words, yet it becomes totally inadequate to the task of conveying an idea of those feelings—those harrowing emotions—those horrifying sentiments, which were excited in the breasts of Francisco di Riverola and the beautiful Flora by the revolution of the manuscript. At first the document begat a deep and mournful interest, as it related the interviews of the late count with Vitangela in the streets of Naples; then amazement was engendered by the announcement of that lovely and unhappy being's ignominious parentage—but a calmness was diffused through the minds of Flora and Francisco, as if they had found a resting place amidst the exciting incidents of the narrative when they reached that part which mentioned the marriage.

Their feelings were, however, destined to be speedily and most painfully wrung once more; and Francisco could scarcely restrain his indignation—yes, his indignation even against the memory of his deceased father—when he perused those injurious suspicions which were recorded in reference to the honor of his mother. Though unable to explain the mystery in which all that part of the narrative was involved, yet he felt firmly convinced that his mother was innocent; and he frequently interrupted himself in the perusal of the manuscript to give utterance to passionate ejaculations expressive of that opinion. But it was when the hideous tragedy rapidly developed itself, and the history of the presence of two skeletons in the closet was detailed, it was then that language became powerless to describe the mingled wrath and disgust which Francisco felt, or to delineate the emotions of boundless horror and wild amazement that were excited in the bosom of Flora. In spasmodic shuddering did the young countess cling to her husband when she had learned how fearfully accurate was the manner in which the few lines of the manuscript which she had read many months previously in Nisida's boudoir, fitted in the text, and how appalling was the tale which the entire made. She was cruelly shocked, and her heart bled for that fine young man whom she was so proud to call her husband, but whom his late father had loathed to recognize as a son. And Nisida—what were her feelings as she lay stretched upon a couch, listening to the contents of the manuscript which she had read before? At first one hope—one idea was dominant in her soul, the hope that Flora would be crushed even to death by revelations which were indeed almost sufficient to overwhelm a gentle disposition and freeze the vital current in the tender and compassionate heart.

But as Francisco read on, and when he came to those passages which described the sufferings and the cruel fate of her mother, then Nisida became a prey to the most torturing feelings—dreadful emotions were expressed by her convulsed countenance and wildly-glaring eyes—and she muttered deep and bitter anathemas against the memory of her own father. For well does the reader know that she had loved her mother to distraction; and thus the horrifying detail of the injuries heaped upon the head and on the name of that revered parent aroused all her fiercest passions of rage and hate as completely as if that history had been new to her, and as if she were now becoming acquainted with it for the first time. Indeed, so powerful, so terrible, was the effect produced by the revival of all those dread reminiscences and heart-rending emotions on the part of Nisida that, forgetting her malignant spite and her infernal hope with regard to Flora, she threw her whole soul into the subject of the manuscript: and the torrent of feelings to which she thus gave way was crushing and overwhelming to a woman of such fierce passions, and who had received so awful a shock as that which had stretched her on the couch where she now lay. For the fate of him whom she had loved with such ardor, and the revulsion that her affection experienced on account of the ghastly spectacle which Wagner presented to her view in his dying moments—the disgust and loathing which had been inspired in her mind by the thought that she had ever fondled that being in her arms and absolutely doted on the superhuman beauty that had changed to such revolting ugliness, it was all this that had struck her down—paralyzed her—inflicted a mortal, though not an instantaneous blow upon that woman so lately full of energy, so strong in moral courage, and so full of vigorous health. Thus impressed with the conviction that her end was approaching, the moment the perusal of the manuscript was concluded the Lady Nisida said, in a faint and dying tone of voice: