And, as if to dispel all doubt as to the identity, the majestic lady suddenly tore aside her veil, and disclosed to the trembling, shrinking Agnes, features already too well known.

But, if the lightning of those brilliant, burning, black eyes had seemed terrible on former occasions, they were now absolutely blasting, and Agnes fell upon her knees, exclaiming, "Mercy! mercy! how have I offended you?"

For a few moments those basilisk-eyes darted forth shafts of fire and flame, and the red lips quivered violently, and the haughty brow contracted menacingly, and Agnes was stupefied, stunned, fascinated, terribly fascinated by that tremendous rage, the vengeance of which seemed ready to explode against her.

But only a few moments lasted that dreadful scene; for the lady, whose entire appearance was that of an avenging fiend in the guise of a beauteous woman, suddenly drew a sharp poniard from its sheath in her bodice, and plunged it into the bosom of the hapless Agnes.

The victim fell back; but not a shriek—not a sound escaped her lips. The blow was well aimed, the poniard was sharp and went deep, and death followed instantaneously.

For nearly a minute did the murderess stand gazing on the corpse—the corpse of one erst so beautiful; and her countenance, gradually relaxing from its stern, implacable expression, assumed an air of deep remorse—of bitter, bitter compunction.

But probably yielding to the sudden thought that she must provide for her own safety, the murderess drew forth the dagger from the white bosom in which it was buried: hastily wiped it upon a leaf; returned it to the sheath; and, replacing the veil over her countenance, hurried rapidly away from the scene of her fearful crime.



CHAPTER XV.

THE SBIRRI—THE ARREST.

Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since the unfortunate Agnes was thus suddenly cut off in the bloom of youth and beauty, when a lieutenant of police, with his guard of sbirri, passed along the road skirting Wagner's garden.

They were evidently in search of some malefactor, for, stopping in their course, they began to deliberate on the business which they had in hand.

"Which way could he possibly have gone?" cried one, striking the butt-end of his pike heavily upon the ground.

"How could we possibly have missed him?" exclaimed another.

"Stephano is not so easily caught, my men," observed the lieutenant. "He is the most astute and cunning of the band of which he is the captain. And yet, I wish we had pounced upon him, since we were so nicely upon his track."

"And a thousand ducats offered by the state for his capture," suggested one of the sbirri.

"Yes; 'tis annoying!" ejaculated the lieutenant, "but I could have sworn he passed this way."

"And I could bear the same evidence, signor," observed the first speaker. "Maybe he has taken refuge in those bushes."

"Not unlikely. We are fools to grant him a moment's vantage ground. Over the fence, my men, and beat amongst these gardens."

Thus speaking, the lieutenant set the example, by leaping the railing, and entering the grounds belonging to Wagner's abode.

The sbirri, who were six in number, including their officer, divided themselves into two parties, and proceeded to search the gardens.

Suddenly a loud cry of horror burst from one of the sections; and when the other hastened to the spot, the sbirri composing it found their comrades in the act of raising the corpse of Agnes.

"She is quite dead," said the lieutenant, placing his hand upon her heart. "And yet the crime cannot have been committed many minutes, as the corpse is scarcely cold, and the blood still oozes forth."

"What a lovely creature she must have been," exclaimed one of the sbirri.

"Cease your profane remarks, my man," cried the lieutenant. "This must be examined into directly. Does any one know who dwells in that mansion?"

"Signor Wagner, a wealthy German," was the reply given by a sbirro.

"Then come with me, my man," said the lieutenant; "and let us lose no time in searching his house. One of you must remain by the corpse—and the rest may continue the search after the bandit, Stephano."

Having issued these orders, the lieutenant, followed by the sbirro whom he had chosen to accompany him, hastened to the mansion.

The gate was opened by an old porter, who stared in astonishment when he beheld the functionaries of justice visiting that peaceful dwelling. But the lieutenant ordered him to close and lock the gate; and having secured the key, the officer said, "We must search this house; a crime has been committed close at hand."

"A crime!" ejaculated the porter; "then the culprit is not here—for there is not a soul beneath this roof who would perpetrate a misdeed."

"Cease your prating, old man," said the lieutenant, sternly. "We have a duty to perform—see that we be not molested in executing it."

"But what is the crime, signor, of which——"

"Nay—that you shall know anon," interrupted the lieutenant. "In the name of his serene highness, the duke, I command you in the first place to lead me and my followers to the presence of your master."

The old man hastened to obey this mandate, and he conducted the sbirri into the chamber where Wagner, having thrown off his garments, was partaking of that rest which he so much needed.

At the sound of heavy feet and the clanking of martial weapons, Fernand started from the slumber into which he had fallen only a few minutes previously.

"What means this insolent intrusion?" he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing with anger at the presence of the police.

"Pardon us, signor," said the lieutenant, in a respectful tone: "but a dreadful crime has been committed close by—indeed within the inclosure of your own grounds——"

"A dreadful crime!" ejaculated Wagner.

"Yes, signor; a crime——"

The officer was interrupted by an ejaculation of surprise which burst from the lips of his attendant sbirro; and, turning hastily round, he beheld his follower intently scrutinizing the attire which Fernand had ere now thrown off.

"Ah! blood-stains!" cried the lieutenant, whose attention was directed toward those marks by the finger of his man. "Then is the guilty one speedily discovered! Signor!" he added, turning once more toward Wagner, "are those your garments?"

An expression of indescribable horror convulsed the countenance of Fernand; for the question of the officer naturally reminded him of his dreadful fate—the fate of a Wehr-Wolf—although, we should observe, he never remembered, when restored to the form of a man, what he might have done during the long hours that he wore the shape of a ferocious monster.

Still, as he knew that his garments had been soiled, torn and blood-stained in the course of the preceding night, it was no wonder that he shuddered and became convulsed with mental agony when his terrible doom was so forcibly called to his mind.

His emotions were naturally considered to be corroborative evidence of guilt: and the lieutenant laying his hand upon Wagner's shoulder, said in a stern, solemn manner, "In the name of his highness our prince, I arrest you for the crime of murder!"

"Murder!" repeated Fernand, dashing away the officer's arm; "you dare not accuse me of such a deed!"

"I accuse you of murder, signor," exclaimed the lieutenant. "Within a hundred paces of your dwelling a young lady——"

"A young lady!" cried Wagner, thinking of Agnes, whom he had left in the garden.

"Yes, signor, a young lady has been most barbarously murdered!" added the officer in an impressive tone.

"Agnes! Agnes!" almost screamed the unhappy man, as this dreadful announcement fell upon his ears. "Oh! is it possible that thou art no more, my poor Agnes!"

He covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly.

The lieutenant made a sign to his follower, who instantly quitted the room.

"There must be some mistake in this, signor," said the old porter, approaching the lieutenant and speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion. "The master whom I serve, and whom you accuse, is incapable of the deed imputed to him."

"Yes. God knows how truly you speak!" ejaculated Wagner, raising his head. "That girl—oh! sooner than have harmed one single hair of her head—— But how know you that it is Agnes who is murdered?" he cried abruptly, turning toward the lieutenant.

"It was you who said it, signor," calmly replied the officer, as he fixed his dark eyes keenly upon Fernand.

"Oh! it was a surmise—a conjecture—because I parted with Agnes a short time ago in the garden," exclaimed Wagner, speaking in hurried and broken sentences.

"Behold the victim!" said the lieutenant, who had approached the window, from which he was looking.

Wagner sprung from his couch, and glanced forth into the garden beneath.

The sbirri were advancing along the gravel pathway, bearing amongst them the corpse of Agnes upon whose pallid countenance the morning sunbeams were dancing, as if in mockery even at death.

"Holy Virgin! it is indeed Agnes!" cried Wagner, in a tone of the most profound heart-rending anguish, and he fell back senseless in the arms of the lieutenant.

An hour afterward, Fernand Wagner was the inmate of a dungeon beneath the palace inhabited by the Duke of Florence.



CHAPTER XVI.

NISIDA AND THE CARMELITE ABBESS.

Punctually at midday, the Lady Nisida of Riverola proceeded, alone and unattended, to the Convent of Carmelite Nuns, where she was immediately admitted into the presence of the abbess.

The superior of this monastic establishment, was a tall, thin, stern-looking woman, with a sallow complexion, an imperious compression of the lips, and small, grey eyes, that seemed to flicker with malignity rather than to beam with the pure light of Christian love.

She was noted for the austerity of her manners, the rigid discipline which she maintained in the convent, and the inexorable disposition which she showed toward those who, having committed a fault, came within her jurisdiction.

Rumor was often busy with the affairs of the Carmelite Convent; and the grandams and gossips of Florence would huddle together around their domestic hearths, on the cold winter's evenings, and venture mysterious hints and whispers of strange deeds committed within the walls of that sacred institution; how from time to time some young and beautiful nun had suddenly disappeared, to the surprise and alarm of her companions; how piercing shrieks had been heard to issue from the interior of the building, by those who passed near it at night,—and how the inmates themselves were often aroused from their slumbers by strange noises resembling the rattling of chains, the working of ponderous machinery, and the revolution of huge wheels.

Such food for scandal as those mysterious whispers supplied, was not likely to pass without exaggeration; and that love of the marvelous which inspired the aforesaid gossips, led to the embellishment of the rumors just glanced at—so that one declared with a solemn shake of the head, how spirits were seen to glide around the convent walls at night—and another averred that a nun, with whom she was acquainted, had assured her that strange and unearthly forms were often encountered by those inmates of the establishment who were hardy enough to venture into the chapel, or to traverse the long corridors or gloomy cloisters after dusk.

These vague and uncertain reports did not, however, prevent some of the wealthiest families in Florence from placing their daughters in the Carmelite Convent. A nobleman or opulent citizen who had several daughters, would consider it a duty to devote one of them to the service of the church; and the votive girl was most probably compelled to perform her novitiate and take the veil in this renowned establishment. It was essentially the convent patronized by the aristocracy; and no female would be received within its walls save on the payment of a considerable sum of money.

There was another circumstance which added to the celebrity and augmented the wealth of the Carmelite Convent. Did a young unmarried lady deviate from the path of virtue, or did a husband detect the infidelity of his wife, the culprit was forthwith consigned to the care of the abbess, and forced to take up her abode in that monastic institution. Or, again—did some female openly neglect her religious duties, or imprudently express an opinion antagonistic to the Roman Catholic Church, the family to which she belonged would remove her to the spiritual care of the abbess.

The convent was therefore considered to be an institution recognized by the state as a means of punishing immorality, upholding the Catholic religion, persuading the skeptical,—confirming the wavering, and exercising a salutary terror over the ladies of the upper class, at that period renowned for their dissolute morals. The aristocracy of Florence patronized and protected the institution—because its existence afforded a ready means to get rid of a dishonored daughter, or an unfaithful wife; and it was even said that the abbess was invested with extraordinary powers by the rescript of the duke himself, powers which warranted her interference with the liberty of young females who were denounced to her by their parents, guardians, or others who might have a semblance of a right to control or coerce them.

Luther had already begun to make a noise in Germany; and the thunders of his eloquence had reverberated across the Alps to the Italian states. The priesthood was alarmed; and the conduct of the reformer was an excuse for rendering the discipline of the monastic institutions more rigid than ever. Nor was the Abbess Maria a woman who hesitated to avail herself of this fact as an apology for strengthening her despotism and widening the circle of her influence.

The reader has now heard enough to make him fully aware that the Carmelite Convent was an establishment enjoying influence, exercising an authority, and wielding a power, which—if these were misdirected—constituted an enormous abuse in the midst of states bearing the name of a republic. But the career of the Medici was then hastening toward a close; and in proportion as the authority of the duke became more circumscribed, the encroachments of the ecclesiastical orders grew more extensive.

The Abbess Maria, who was far advanced in years, but was endowed with one of those vigorous intellects against which Time vainly directs his influence, received the Lady Nisida in a little parlor plainly furnished. The praying desk was of the most humble description; and above it rose a cross of wood so worm-eaten and decayed that it seemed as if the grasp of a strong hand would crush it into dust. But this emblem of the creed had been preserved in the Carmelite Convent since the period of the Second Crusade, and was reported to consist of a piece of the actual cross on which the Saviour suffered in Palestine.

Against the wall hung a scourge, with five knotted thongs, whereon the blood-stains denoted the severity of that penance which the abbess frequently inflicted upon herself. On a table stood a small loaf of coarse bread and a pitcher of water; for although a sumptuous banquet was every day served up in the refectory, the abbess was never known to partake of the delicious viands nor to place her lips in contact with wine.

When Nisida entered the presence of the abbess, she sank on her knees, and folded her arms meekly across her bosom. The holy mother gave her a blessing, and made a motion for her to rise. Nisida obeyed, and took a seat near the abbess at the table.

She then drew forth her tablets, and wrote a few lines, which the superior read with deep attention.

Nisida placed a heavy purse of gold upon the table, and the abbess nodded an assent to the request contained in the lines inscribed on the tablet.

The interview was about to terminate, when the door suddenly opened, and an elderly nun entered the room.

"Ursula," said the lady abbess, in a cold but reproachful tone, "didst thou not know that I was engaged? What means this abrupt intrusion?"

"Pardon me, holy mother!" exclaimed the nun: "but the rumor of such a frightful murder has just reached us——"

"A murder!" ejaculated the abbess. "Oh! unhappy Florence, when wilt thou say farewell to crimes which render thy name detestable among Italian states?"

"This indeed, too, holy mother, is one of inordinate blackness," continued Sister Ursula. "A young and beautiful lady——"

"We know not personal beauty within these walls, daughter," interrupted the abbess, sternly.

"True, holy mother! and yet I did but repeat the tale as the porteress ere now related it to me. However," resumed Ursula, "it appears that a young female, whom the worldly-minded outside these sacred walls denominate beautiful, was barbarously murdered this morning—shortly after the hour of sunrise——"

"Within the precincts of Florence?" inquired the abbess.

"Within a short distance of the convent, holy mother," answered the nun. "The dreadful deed was accomplished in the garden attached to the mansion of a certain Signor Wagner, whom the worldly-minded style a young man wondrously handsome."

"A fair exterior often conceals a dark heart, daughter," said the abbess. "But who was the hapless victim?"

"Rumor declares, holy mother——"

The nun checked herself abruptly, and glanced at Nisida, who, during the above conversation, had approached the windows which commanded a view of the convent garden, and whose back was therefore turned toward the abbess and Ursula.

"You may speak fearlessly, daughter," said the abbess; "that unfortunate lady hears you not—for she is both deaf and dumb."

"Holy Virgin succor her," exclaimed Ursula, crossing herself. "I was about to inform your ladyship," she continued, "that rumor represents the murdered woman to have been the sister of this Signor Wagner of whom I spoke; but it is more than probable that there was no tie of relationship between them—and that——"

"I understand you, daughter," interrupted the abbess. "Alas! how much wickedness is engendered in this world by the sensual, fleshly passion which mortals denominate love! But is the murderer detected?"

"The murderer was arrested immediately after the perpetration of the crime," responded Ursula; "and at this moment he is a prisoner in the dungeon of the palace."

"Who is the lost man that has perpetrated such a dreadful crime?" demanded the abbess, again crossing herself.

"Signor Wagner himself, holy mother," was the reply.

"The pious Duke Cosmo bequeathed gold to this institution," said the abbess, "that masses might be offered up for the souls of those who fall beneath the weapon of the assassin. See that the lamented prince's instructions be not neglected in this instance, Ursula."

"It was to remind your ladyship of this duty that I ventured to break upon your privacy," returned the nun, who then withdrew.

The abbess approached Nisida, and touched her upon the shoulder to intimate to her that they were again alone together.

She had drawn down her veil, and was leaning her forehead against one of the iron bars which protected the window—apparently in a mood of deep thought.

When the abbess touched her, she started abruptly round—then, pressing the superior's hand with convulsive violence, hurried from the room.

The old porteress presented the alms-box as she opened the gate of the convent; but Nisida pushed it rudely aside, and hurried down the steps as if she were escaping from a lazar-house, rather than issuing from a monastic institution.



CHAPTER XVII.

WAGNER IN PRISON—A VISITOR.

It was evening; and Wagner paced his narrow dungeon with agitated steps.

Far beneath the level of the ground, and under the ducal palace, was that gloomy prison, having no window, save a grating in the massive door to admit the air.

A lamp burned dimly upon the table, whereon stood also the coarse prison fare provided for the captive, but which was untouched.

The clanking of the weapons of the sentinels, who kept guard in the passage from which the various dungeons opened, fell mournfully upon Fernand's ears, and every moment reminded him of the apparent impossibility to escape—even if such an idea possessed him.

The lamp had burned throughout the day in his dungeon; for the light of heaven could not penetrate that horrible subterranean cell—and it was only by the payment of gold that he had induced the jailer to permit him the indulgence of the artificial substitute for the rays of the glorious sun.

"Oh! wretched being that I am!" he thought within himself, as he paced the stone floor of his prison-house; "the destiny of the accursed is mine! Ah! fool—dotard that I was to exchange the honors of old age for the vicissitudes of a renewed existence! Had nature taken her course, I should probably now be sleeping in a quiet grave—and my soul might be in the regions of the blessed. But the tempter came, and dazzled me with prospects of endless happiness—and I succumbed! Oh! Faust! would that thou hadst never crossed the threshold of my humble cottage in the Black Forest! How much sorrow—how much misery should I have been spared! Better—better to have remained in poverty—solitude—helplessness—worn down by the weight of years—and crushed by the sense of utter loneliness—oh! better to have endured all this, than to have taken on myself a new tenure of that existence which is so marked with misery and woe!"

He threw himself upon a seat, and endeavored to reflect on his position with calmness; but he could not!

Starting up, he again paced the dungeon in an agitated manner.

"Holy God!" he exclaimed aloud, "how much wretchedness has fallen upon me in a single day! Agnes murdered—Nisida perhaps forever estranged from me—myself accused of a dreadful crime, whereof I am innocent—and circumstances all combining so wonderfully against me! But who could have perpetrated the appalling deed? Can that mysterious lady, whom Agnes spoke of so frequently, and who, by her description, so closely resembled my much-loved Nisida—can she——"

At that moment the bolts were suddenly drawn back from the door of the dungeon—the clanking chains fell heavily on the stone pavement outside—and the jailer appeared, holding a lamp in his hand.

"Your brother, signor, is come to visit you," said the turnkey. "But pray let the interview be a brief one—for it is as much as my situation and my own liberty are worth to have admitted him without an order from the chief judge."

"With these words the jailer made way for a cavalier to enter the dungeon;" and as he closed the door, he said, "I shall return shortly to let your brother out again."

Surprise had hitherto placed a seal upon Wagner's lips; but even before the visitor had entered the cell, a faint suspicion—a wild hope had flashed to his mind that Nisida had not forgotten him, that she would not abandon him.

But this hope was destroyed almost as soon as formed, by the sudden recollection of her affliction;—for how could a deaf and dumb woman succeed in bribing and deceiving one so cautious and wary as the jailer of a criminal prison?

Nevertheless the moment the visitor had entered the cell—and in spite of the deep disguise which she wore, the eyes of the lover failed not to recognize the object of his adoration in that elegant cavalier who now stood before him.

Scarcely had the jailer closed and bolted the massive door again, when Fernand rushed forward to clasp Nisida in his arms;—but, imperiously waving her hand, she motioned him to stand back.

Then, with the language of the fingers, she rapidly demanded—"Will you swear upon the cross that the young female who has been murdered, was not your mistress?"

"I swear," answered Fernand in the same symbolic manner; and, as the light of the lamp played on his handsome countenance, his features assumed so decided an expression of truth, frankness, and sincerity, that Nisida was already more than half convinced of the injustice of her suspicions.

But still she was determined to be completely satisfied; and, drawing forth a small but exquisitely sculptured crucifix from her doublet, she presented it to her lover.

He sank upon one knee, received it respectfully, and kissed it without hesitation.

Nisida then threw herself into his arms, and embraced him with a fondness as warm, as wild, as impassioned as her suspicions had ere now been vehement and fearfully resentful.

Her presence caused Fernand to forget his sorrow—to forget that he was in a dungeon—to forget, also, the tremendous charge that hung over his head. For never had his Nisida appeared to him so marvelously beautiful as he now beheld her, disguised in the graceful garb of a cavalier of that age. Though tall, majestic, and of rich proportions for a woman, yet in the attire of the opposite sex she seemed slight, short, and eminently graceful. The velvet cloak sat so jauntily on her sloping shoulder;—the doublet became her symmetry so well;—and the rich lace collar was so arranged as to disguise the prominence of the chest—that voluptuous fullness which could not be compressed.

At length a sudden thought struck Fernand, and he inquired, in the usual manner, how Nisida had gained access to him?

"A faithful friend contrived the interview for me," she replied, with her wonted rapidity of play upon the fingers. "He led the jailer to believe that I was a German, and totally unacquainted with the Italian tongue. Thus not a word was addressed to me; and gold has opened the door which separated me from you. The same means shall secure your escape."

"Dearest Nisida," signaled Wagner, "I would not escape were the door of my dungeon left open and the sentinels removed. I am innocent—and that innocence must be proved!"

The lady exhibited extraordinary impatience at this reply.

"You do not believe me guilty?" asked Wagner.

She shook her head in a determined manner, to show how profound was her conviction of his innocence.

"Then do not urge me, beloved one, to escape and be dishonored forever," was the urgent prayer he conveyed to her.

"The evidence against you will be overwhelming," she gave him to understand: then with an air of the most heart appealing supplication, she added, "Escape, dearest Fernand, for my sake!"

"But I should be compelled to fly from Florence—and wouldst thou accompany me?"

She shook her head mournfully.

"Then I will remain here—in this dungeon! If my innocence be proved, I may yet hope to call the sister of the Count of Riverola my wife: if I be condemned——"

He paused:—for he knew that, even if he were sentenced to death, he could not die,—that some power, of which, however, he had only a vague notion, would rescue him,—that the compact, which gave him renewed youth and a long life on the fatal condition of his periodical transformation into a horrid monster, must be fulfilled; and, though he saw not—understood not how all this was to be, still he knew that it would happen if he should really be condemned!

Nisida was not aware of the motive which had checked her lover as he was conveying to her his sense of the dread alternatives before him; and she hastened to intimate to him the following thought:—

"You would say that if you be condemned, you will know how to meet death as becomes a brave man. But think of me—of Nisida, who loves you!"

"Would you continue to love a man branded as a murderer?"

"I should only think of you as my own dear Fernand!"

He shook his head—as much as to say, "It cannot be!"—and then once more embraced her fondly—for he beheld, in her anxiety for his escape, only a proof of her ardent affection.

At this moment the jailer returned: and while he was unbolting the door, Nisida made one last, imploring appeal to her lover to give his assent to escape, if the arrangements were made for that purpose.

But he conveyed to her his resolute determination to meet the charge, with the hope of proving his innocence: and for a few moments Nisida seemed convulsed with the most intense anguish of soul.

The jailer made his appearance; and Wagner, to maintain the deceit which Nisida informed him to have been practiced on the man, said a few words aloud in German—as if he was really taking leave of a brother.

Nisida embraced him tenderly; and covering her countenance, as much as possible, with her slouched hat, the waving plumes of which she made to fall over her face, this extraordinary being issued from the cell.



CHAPTER XVIII.

FLORA FRANCATELLI—THE THREE NUNS—THE CHAIR.

Nisida regained her apartment, by the private staircase, without any molestation. Having laid aside her male attire, she assumed a loose wrapper, and then, throwing herself into an armchair, gave way to her reflections.

These were apparently of no pleasurable nature; for they were frequently interrupted by convulsive starts and rapid glancings around the room—as if she were fearful lest some terrible specter were present to scare her.

Once or twice her eyes lingered on her mother's portrait; and then profound sighs escaped her bosom.

Presently the beautiful Flora Francatelli entered the apartment; but Nisida made her a sign of dismissal.

The maiden withdrew; and we must now follow her to her own chamber.

On reaching her bedroom, Flora did not immediately retire to rest. She felt that she should not sleep, even were she to seek her pillow: for she had much—very much to ponder upon!

There was a marked, undisguised reserve about her mistress which materially affected her. Although she could not control her affections, yet she felt as if she were acting with duplicity toward the Lady Nisida in having listened to the love-tale of Francisco, and, retaining that revelation of his affection a secret in her own breast.

Yet—had he not implored, had he not enjoined her to keep that avowal to herself? Yes, and when she looked at the matter, as it were, face to face, she could not justly reproach herself:—nevertheless, that secret love weighed upon her conscience like a crime!

She could not understand wherefore Nisida's manner had changed toward her. Francisco had assuredly made no communication to his sister; and nothing had transpired to excite a suspicion of the real truth in her mind. Still there was a coolness on the part of that lady:—or might it not be that Flora's imagination deceived her?

There was another, and even a more serious cause of grief weighing upon her mind. Dispatches had been received from the nobleman in whose suit her brother Alessandro had repaired to Constantinople; and the secretary of the council of Florence had intimated to Signora Francatelli (Flora's aunt) that Alessandro had abjured the faith of his forefathers and had embraced the Mussulman creed. It was also stated that the young man had entered the service of grand vizier; but whether he had become a renegade through love for some Turkish maiden, or with the hope of ameliorating his condition in a worldly point of view, whether, indeed, self-interest or a conscientious belief in the superiority of the Moslem doctrines over those of Christianity, had swayed Alessandro, no one could say.

His aunt was almost heart-broken at the news. Father Marco, through whose influence he had obtained the post of secretary to the Florentine Envoy, was shocked and grieved; and Flora was not the less afflicted at an event which, as she had been taught to believe, must inevitably place her much-loved brother beyond the hope of spiritual salvation.

Amidst the gloomy reflections excited by the Lady Nisida's coolness, and the disagreeable tidings which had been received concerning her brother, there was nevertheless one gleam of consolation for Flora Francatelli.

This was the love which Francisco entertained for her, and which she so tenderly, so sincerely reciprocated.

Yes, a maiden's first love is ever a source of solace amidst the gloom of affliction; because it is so intimately intertwined with hope! For the soul of the innocent, artless girl who fondly loves, soars aloft in a heaven of her own creation, dove-like on the wings of faith!

It was already late when Flora began to unbraid and set at liberty her dark brown tresses, preparatory to retiring to rest, when a low knock at the chamber-door startled her in the midst of her occupation.

Thinking it might be the Lady Nisida who required her attendance she hastened to open the door; and immediately three women, dressed in religious habits and having black veils thrown over their heads so as completely to conceal their faces, entered the room.

Flora uttered a faint scream—for the sudden apparition of those specter-like figures, at such a late hour of the night, was well calculated to alarm even a person of maturer age and stronger mind than Signora Francatelli.

"You must accompany us, young lady," said the foremost nun, advancing toward her. "And beware how you create any disturbance—for it will avail you nothing."

"Whither am I to be conducted?" asked Flora, trembling from head to foot.

"That we cannot inform you," was the reply. "Neither must you know at present; and therefore our first duty is to blindfold you."

"Pity me—have mercy upon me!" exclaimed Flora, throwing herself on her knees before the nun who addressed her in so harsh, so stern a manner. "I am a poor, unprotected girl: have mercy upon me!"

But the three nuns seized upon her; and while one held the palm of her hand forcibly over her mouth so as to check her utterance, the others hastily blindfolded her.

Flora was so overcome by this alarming proceeding, that she fainted.

When she came to her senses, she found herself lying on a hard and sorry couch in a large apartment, almost entirely denuded of furniture and lighted by a feebly-burning lamp suspended to the low ceiling.

For a moment she thought she was laboring under the influence of a hideous dream; but, glancing around, she started with affright, and a scream burst from her lips, when she beheld the three nuns standing by the bed.

"Why have you brought me hither?" she demanded, springing from the couch, and addressing the recluses with frantic wildness.

"To benefit you in a spiritual sense," replied the one who had before acted as spokeswoman: "to purge your mind of those mundane vanities which have seized upon it, and to render you worthy of salvation. Pray, sisters—pray for this at present benighted creature!"

Then, to the surprise of the young maiden, the three nuns all fell upon their knees around her, and began to chant a solemn hymn in most lugubrious notes.

They had thrown aside their veils, and the flickering light of the dim lamp gave a ghastly and unearthly appearance to their pale and severe countenances. They were all three elderly persons: and their aspect was of that cold, forbidding nature, which precludes hope on the part of any one who might have to implore mercy.

The young maiden was astounded—stupefied—she knew not what to conjecture. Where was she? who were those nuns that had treated her so harshly? why was she brought to that cold, cheerless apartment? what meant the hymn that seemed chanted expressly on her account?

She could not bear up against the bewilderment and alarm produced by these questions which she asked herself, and none of which she could solve. An oppressive sensation came over her; and she was about to sink back upon the couch from which she had risen, when the hymn suddenly ceased—the nuns rose from their suppliant posture—and the foremost, addressing the poor girl in a reproachful tone, exclaimed, "Oh! wicked—worldly-minded creature, repent—repent—repent!"

There was something so awful—so appalling—in this strange conduct on the part of the nuns, that Flora began to doubt whether she were not laboring under some terrible delusion. She feared lest her senses were leaving her: and, covering her face with her hands, so as to close her eyes against external objects, she endeavored to look inward, as it were, and scrutinize her own soul.

But she was not allowed time to reflect; for the three nuns seized upon her, the foremost saying, "You must come with us!"

"Mercy! mercy!" screamed the wretched girl, vainly struggling in the powerful grasp of the recluses.

Her long hair, which she had unbraided before she was carried off from the Riverola mansion, floated over her shoulders, and enhanced the expression of ineffable despair which her pallid countenance now wore.

Wildly she glanced around, as she was being hurried from the room; and frantic screams escaped her lips. But there was no one nigh to succor—no one to melt at the outbursts of her anguish!

The three nuns dragged, rather than conducted her to an adjacent apartment, which was lighted by a lamp of astonishing brilliancy, and hung in a skylight raised above the roof.

On the floor, immediately beneath this lamp, stood an armchair of wicker-work; and from this chair two stout cords ascended to the ceiling, through which they passed by means of two holes perforated for the purpose.

When Flora was dragged by the nuns to the immediate vicinity of the chair, which her excited imagination instantly converted into an engine of torture, that part of the floor on which the chair stood seemed to tremble and oscillate beneath her feet, as if it were a trap-door.

The most dreadful sensations now came over her: she felt as if her brain was reeling—as if she must go mad.

A fearful scream burst from her lips, and she struggled with the energy of desperation, as the nuns endeavored to thrust her into the chair.

"No—no!" she exclaimed, frantically; "you shall not torture me—you dare not murder me! What have I done to merit this treatment! Mercy! mercy!"

But her cries and her struggles were alike useless; for she was now firmly bound to the chair, into which the nuns had forced her to seat herself.

Then commenced the maddening scene which will be found in the ensuing chapter.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE DESCENT—THE CHAMBER OF PENITENCE.

Having bound Flora Francatelli to the chair in the manner just described, the three nuns fell back a few paces, and the wretched girl felt the floor giving way under her.

A dreadful scream burst from her lips, as slowly—slowly the chair sank down, while the working of hidden machinery in the roof, and the steady, monotonous revolution of wheels, sounded with ominous din upon her ears.

An icy stream appeared to pour over her soul; wildly she cast around her eyes, and then more piercing became her shrieks, as she found herself gradually descending into what seemed to be a pit or well—only that it was square instead of round.

The ropes creaked—the machinery continued its regular movement, and the lamp fixed in the skylight overhead became less and less brilliant.

And bending over the mouth of this pit into which she was descending were the three nuns—standing motionless and silent like hideous specters, on the brink of the aperture left by the square platform or trap, whereon the chair was fixed.

"Mercy! Mercy!" exclaimed Flora, in a voice expressive of the most acute anguish.

And stretching forth her snowy arms (for it was round the waist and by the feet that she was fastened to the chair), she convulsively placed her open palms against the wooden walls of the pit, as if she could by that spasmodic movement arrest the descent of the terrible apparatus that was bearing her down into that hideous, unknown gulf! But the walls were smooth and even, and presented nothing whereon she could fix her grasp.

Her brain reeled, and for a few minutes she sat motionless, in dumb, inert despair.

Then again, in obedience to some mechanical impulse, she glanced upward; the light of the lamp was now dimly seen, like the sun through a dense mist—but the dark figures were still bending over the brink of the abyss, thirty yards above.

The descent was still progressing and the noise of the machinery still reached her ears, with buzzing, humming, monotonous indistinctness.

She shrieked not now—she screamed not any more; but it was not resignation that sealed her lips;—it was despair!

Suddenly she became aware of the gradual disappearance of the three nuns; as she descended, the wall seemed to rise slowly upward and cover them from her view.

Then, for an instant there was a slight shock given to the platform whereon the chair was placed—as if it rested on something beneath.

But no;—the fearful descent still went on—for, when she again stretched forth her hand to touch the walls, they appeared to be slowly rising—rising!

She was now involved in almost total darkness; but far—far overhead the dim luster of the lamp was seen; and the four walls of the gulf now appeared to touch the ceiling of the room above, and to inclose that faint but still distinct orb within the narrow space thus shut in.

The noise of the machinery also reached her still—but merely with a humming sound that was only just audible.

For an instant she doubted whether she was still descending; but, alas! when her arms were a third time convulsively stretched forth, her fair hands felt the walls slipping away from her touch—gliding upward, as it were, with steady emotion.

Then she knew that the descent had not ceased.

But whither was she going? to what awful depth was she progressing?

Already she conjectured, was she at least sixty yards beneath that dim yellow orb which every instant appeared to shine as through a deeper, deepening mist.

For what fate was she reserved? and where was she?

Suddenly it struck her that she was an inmate of the Carmelite Convent; for the rumors alluded to in a preceding chapter had often met her ears; and her imagination naturally associated them with the occurrences of that dreadful night.

The piercing shrieks—the noise of machinery—the disappearance from time to time of some member of that monastic institution, all the incidents, in fine, to which those rumors had ever pointed, now seemed to apply to her own case.

These reflections flashed, with lightning rapidity, through her brain, and paralyzed her with horror.

Then she lost all further power of thought; and though not absolutely fainting, she was stunned and stupefied with the tremendous weight of overwhelming despair.

How long she remained in this condition she knew not; but she was suddenly aroused by the opening of a low door in the wall in front of her.

Starting as from a dreadful dream, she stretched forth her arms, and became aware that the descent had stopped; and at the same moment she beheld a nun, bearing a lamp, standing on the threshold of the door which had just opened.

"Sister, welcome to the chamber of penitence!" said the recluse, approaching the terrified Flora.

Then, placing the lamp in a niche near the door, the nun proceeded to remove the cords which fastened the young maiden to the chair.

Flora rose, but fell back again on the seat—for her limbs were stiff in consequence of the length of time they had been retained in one position. The nun disappeared by the little door for a few minutes; and, on her return, presented the wretched girl a cup of cold water. Flora swallowed the icy beverage, and felt refreshed.

Then, by the light of the lamp in the niche, she hastily examined the countenance of the nun; but its expression was cold—repulsive—stern: and Flora knew that it was useless to seek to make a friend of her.

A frightful sense of loneliness, as it were, struck her like an ice-shaft penetrating to her very soul; and clasping her hands together, she exclaimed: "Holy Virgin! protect me!"

"No harm will befall you, daughter," said the nun, "if you manifest contrition for past errors and a resolution to devote your future years to the service of Heaven."

"My past errors!" repeated Flora, with mingled indignation and astonishment. "I am not aware that I ever injured a living soul by a word or deed—nor entertained a thought for which I need to blush! Neither have I neglected those duties which manifest the gratitude of mortals for the bounties bestowed upon them by Providence."

"Ah! daughter," exclaimed the nun, "you interpret not your own heart rightly. Have you never abandoned yourself to those carnal notions—those hopes—those fears—those dreams of happiness—which constitute the passion which the world calls love?"

Flora started, and a blush mantled on her cheeks, before so pale!

"You see that I have touched a chord which vibrates to your heart's core, daughter," continued the nun, on whom that sudden evidence of emotion was not lost. "You have suffered yourself to be deluded by the whisperings of that feeling whose tendency was to wean your soul from Heaven."

"And is it possible that a pure and virtuous love can be construed into a crime?" demanded the young maiden, her indignation overpowering her fears.

"A love that is founded on, and fostered by ambition is a sin," replied the nun. "Marriage is doubtless an institution ordained by Heaven; but it becomes a curse, and is repulsive to all pious feelings, when it unites those whose passion is made up of sensuality and selfishness."

"You dare not impute such base considerations to me!" exclaimed Flora, her cheeks again flushing, but with the glow of conscious innocence shamefully outraged by the most injurious suspicions.

"Nay, daughter," continued the nun, unmoved by the manner of the young maiden; "you are unable to judge rightly of your own heart. You possess a confidence in integrity of purpose, which is but a mental blindness on your part."

"Of what am I accused? and wherefore am I brought hither?" asked Flora, beginning to feel bewildered by the sophistry that characterized the nun's discourse.

"Those who are interested in your welfare," replied the nun evasively, "have consigned you to the care of persons devoted to the service of Heaven, that your eyes may be opened to the vanity of the path which you have been pursuing, but from which you are so happily rescued."

"And where am I? is this the Convent of the Carmelites? why was I subjected to all the alarms—all the mental tortures through which I have just passed?" demanded the young maiden, wildly and rapidly.

"Think not that we have acted toward you in a spirit of persecution," said the nun. "The mysteries which have alarmed you will be explained at a future period, when your soul is prepared by penance, self-mortification, and prayer to receive the necessary revelation. In the meantime, ask no questions, forget the world, and resolve to embrace a life devoted to the service of Heaven."

"To embrace a conventual existence!" almost shrieked the wretched girl. "Oh! no, never!"

"Not many days will elapse ere your mind will undergo a salutary change," said the nun, composedly. "But if you will follow me—as you appear to be somewhat recovered—I will conduct you to your cell adjoining the Chamber of Penitence."

Flora, perceiving that any further attempt to reason with the recluse would be fruitlessly made, rose and followed her into a narrow, dark passage, at the end of which was a door standing half open.

The nun extinguished her lamp, and led the way into a large apartment hung with black. At the further end there was an altar, surmounted by a crucifix of ebony, and lighted up with four wax candles, which only served to render the gloom of the entire scene more apparent.

At the foot of the altar knelt five women, half naked, and holding scourges in their hands.

"These are the penitents," whispered the nun to Flora. "Pause for a moment and contemplate them."

A minute elapsed, during which the five penitents remained motionless as statues, with their heads bowed upon their bosoms, and their hands hanging down by their sides, as if those limbs were lifeless—save in respect to the hands that held the scourges. But, suddenly, one of them—a young and beautiful woman—exclaimed, in a tone of piercing anguish, "It is my fault! it is my fault! it is my fault!"—and the others took up the wail in voices equally characteristic of heartfelt woe.

Then they lacerated their shoulders with the hard leathern thongs of their scourges; and a faintness came over Flora Francatelli when she observed the blood appear on the back of the young and beautiful penitent who had given the signal for this self-mortification.

The nun, perceiving the effect thus produced upon the maiden, touched her upon the shoulder as a signal to follow whither she was about to lead; and, opening one of the several doors communicating with the Chamber of Penitence, she said in a low whisper—"This is your cell. May the Virgin bless you!"

Flora entered the little room allotted to her, and the nun retired, simply closing, but not bolting the door behind her.

A taper burnt before a crucifix suspended to the wall; and near it hung a scourge, from which last mentioned object Flora averted her eyes with horror.

A bed, a simple toilet-table, a praying-desk, and a single chair, completed the furniture of the cell, which was of very narrow dimensions.

Seating herself on the bed, Flora burst into an agony of tears.

What would her aunt think when she received the news of her disappearance? for she could not suppose that any friendly feeling on the part of her persecutors would induce them to adopt a course which might relieve that much-loved relative's mind concerning her. What would Francisco conjecture? Oh! these thoughts were maddening!

Anxious to escape from them, if possible, the almost heartbroken girl proceeded to lay aside her garments and retire to rest.

Physical and mental exhaustion cast her into a deep sleep; but the horrors of her condition pursued her even in her dreams; so that when she awoke she was not startled to find herself in that gloomy cell.

Casting her eyes around, she observed two circumstances which showed her that some one had visited her room during the hours she slept; for a new taper was burning before the crucifix, and her own garments had been removed,—the coarse garb of a penitent now occupying their place on the chair.

"Oh! is it possible that I am doomed to bid farewell to the world forever?" exclaimed Flora, in a voice of despair, as she clasped her hands convulsively together.



CHAPTER XX.

FRANCISCO AND NISIDA—DR. DURAS AND THE LETTER.

The greatest confusion prevailed in the Riverola Palace, when, in the morning, the disappearance of Flora Francatelli was discovered.

Nisida hastened, at an early hour, to her brother's apartment, and intimated to him the fact that she was nowhere to be found.

Francisco, who was already dressed, was overwhelmed with grief at this announcement, and, in the first excess of excitement, conveyed to her his intention of seeking the young maiden throughout the city.

He was hastening to quit the room, when Nisida held him back, and intimated to him that his anxiety in this respect would create suspicions injurious alike to his reputation and that of Flora Francatelli—the more so, as she was but a menial in the household.

Francisco paused and reflected for a few moments; then, having tenderly embraced his sister, he hastily addressed her by the symbolic language in which they were accustomed to converse:

"Pardon me, beloved Nisida, for having kept a secret from thee—the only one that my heart has ever so selfishly cherished."

Nisida appeared to be profoundly astonished at this communication, and made an impatient sign for him to proceed.

"You will not be surprised at my anxiety to seek after the missing girl," he continued, "when I intimate to you that I love her—and that, next to yourself, she is dearer to me than I can express."

"Your passion can scarcely be an honorable one, Francisco," was the reproach conveyed by Nisida, while her countenance wore a corresponding expression.

"I would sooner die than harbor an injurious thought in respect to that virtuous and beautiful creature!" responded the young count, his face flushed with the glow of generous emotions. "My happiness is intimately connected with this attachment, Nisida, and I feel convinced that you would rather forward my views than oppose them."

"Yes, dear brother," was the reply which she conveyed to him: "your happiness is my only consideration."

But, as she gave this assurance, an ill-subdued sigh escaped her breast, and she compressed her lips tightly to crush the emotions that were agitating her. A cloud evanescently appeared on the broad and marble forehead; the penciled brows contracted, and the eyes flashed brightly—oh! far more brightly than glanced the ray of the morning sun through the windows, upon the glossy surface of her luxuriant hair. A momentary spasm seemed to convulse the full and rounded form; and the small, elegantly shaped foot which peered from beneath her flowing robe, tapped the floor twice with involuntary movement.

Mistress as she usually was of even her most intense feelings, and wonderfully habituated by circumstances to exercise the most complete command over her emotions, she was now for an instant vanquished by the gush of painful sentiments which crowded on her soul.

Francisco did not, however, observe that transitory evidence of acute feeling on the part of his sister—a feeling which seemed to partake of the nature of remorse, as if she were conscience-stricken!

For she loved her brother deeply—tenderly, but after the fashion of her own wild and wonderful disposition—a love that was not calculated always to prove friendly to his interests.

Francisco paced the room in an agitated manner.

At length he stopped near where his sister was standing, and intimated to her that Flora might perhaps have repaired to the residence of her aunt.

Nisida conveyed to him this answer: "The moment that I missed Flora ere now, I dispatched a domestic to her aunt's cottage; but she has not been there since Sunday last."

"Some treachery is at work here, Nisida," was the young count's response. "Flora has not willingly absented herself."

At this moment Francisco's page entered the apartment to announce that Dr. Duras was in the reception-room.

The young count made a sign to his sister to accompany him; and they proceeded to the elegant saloon where the physician was waiting.

Having saluted the count and Nisida with his usual urbanity, Dr. Duras addressed himself to the former, saying, "I have just learnt from your lordship's page that the favorite attendant on your sister has most unaccountably disappeared."

"And both Nisida and myself are at a loss what to conjecture, or how to act," replied Francisco.

"Florence is at this moment the scene of dreadful crimes," observed the physician. "Yesterday morning a young female was murdered by a near neighbor of mine——"

"I was astounded when I heard of the arrest of Signor Wagner on such a charge," interrupted the count. "He was latterly a frequent guest at this house: although, I believe, you never happened to meet him here?"

"No," answered the physician; "but I saw him at the funeral of your lamented father, and once or twice since in the garden attached to his mansion; and I certainly could not have supposed, from his appearance, that he was a man capable of so black a crime. I was, however, about to observe that Florence is at this moment infested by a class of villains who hesitate at no deed of turpitude. This Signor Wagner is a foreigner, possessed of immense wealth, the sources of which are totally unknown; and, moreover, it is declared that the sbirri, yesterday morning, actually traced the robber-captain Stephano to the vicinity of his mansion. All this looks black enough, and it is more than probable that Wagner was in league with the redoubtable Stephano and his banditti. Then the mysterious disappearance of Flora is, to say the least, alarming, for I believe she was a well conducted, virtuous, estimable young woman."

"She was—she was indeed!" exclaimed Francisco. "At least," he added, perceiving that the physician was somewhat astonished at the enthusiasm with which he spoke—"at least, such is my firm impression; such, too, is the opinion of my sister."

"The motive which brought me hither this morning," said Dr. Duras, "was to offer you a little friendly advice, which my long acquaintance with your family, my dear count, will prevent you from taking amiss."

"Speak, doctor—speak your thoughts!" cried Francisco, pressing the physician's hand gratefully.

"I would recommend you to be more cautious how you form an intimacy with strangers," continued Dr. Duras. "Rumor has a thousand tongues—and it is already reported in Florence that the alleged murderer was on familiar terms with the noble Count of Riverola and Lady Nisida."

"The duke himself is liable to be deceived in respect to the real character of an individual," said Francisco proudly.

"But his highness would not form hasty acquaintances," replied the physician. "After all, it is with the best possible feeling that I offer you my counsel—knowing your generous heart, and also how frequently generosity is imposed upon."

"Pardon the impatience with which I answered you, my dear friend," exclaimed the young count.

"No pardon is necessary," said the physician; "because you did not offend me. One word more and I must take my leave. Crimes are multiplying thickly in Florence, and Stephano's band becomes each day more and more daring; so that it is unsafe to walk alone in the city after dusk. Beware how you stir unattended, my dear Francisco, at unseasonable hours."

"My habits are not of that nature," replied the count. "I, however, thank you cordially for your well-meant advice. But you appear to connect the disappearance of Flora Francatelli," he added, very seriously, "with the dreadful deed supposed to be committed by Signor Wagner!"

"I merely conjecture that this Wagner is associated with that lawless horde who have become the terror of the republic," answered the physician; "and it is natural to suppose that these wretches are guilty of all the enormous crimes which have lately struck the city with alarm."

Francisco turned aside to conceal the emotions which these remarks excited within him; for he began to apprehend that she whom he loved so fondly had met with foul play at the hands of the bravoes and banditti whom Stephano was known to command.

Dr. Duras seized that opportunity to approach Nisida, who was standing at the window; and as he thrust into her hand a note, which was immediately concealed in her dress, he was struck with surprise and grief at the acute anguish that was depicted on her countenance.

Large tears stood on her long, dark lashes, and her face was ashy pale.

The physician made a sign of anxious inquiry; but Nisida, subduing her emotions with an almost superhuman effort, pressed his hand violently and hurried from the room.

Dr. Duras shook his head mournfully, but also in a manner which showed that he was at a loss to comprehend that painful manifestation of feeling on the part of one whom he well knew to be endowed with almost miraculous powers of self-control.

His meditations were interrupted by Francisco, who, addressing him abruptly, said, "In respect to the missing young lady, whose absence will be so acutely felt by my sister, the only course which I can at present pursue, is to communicate her mysterious disappearance to the captain of police."

"No time should be lost in adopting that step," responded the doctor. "I am about to visit a sick nobleman in the neighborhood of the captain's office: we will proceed so far in each other's company."

The young count summoned his page to attend upon him, and then quitted the mansion in company with the physician.

In the meantime Nisida had retired to her own apartment, where she threw herself into a seat, and gave vent to the dreadful emotions which had for the last hour been agitating within her bosom.

She wept—oh! she wept long and bitterly: it was terrible and strange to think how that woman of iron mind now yielded to the outpourings of her anguish.

Some time elapsed ere she even attempted to control her feelings; and then her struggle to subdue them was as sudden and energetic as her grief had a moment previously been violent and apparently inconsolable.

Then she recollected the note which Dr. Duras had slipped into her hand, and which she had concealed in her bosom; and she hastened to peruse it. The contents ran as follows:

"In accordance with your request, my noble-hearted and much-enduring friend, I have consulted eminent lawyers in respect to the will of the late Count of Riverola. The substance of their opinion is unanimously this: The estates are inalienably settled on yourself, should you recover the faculties of hearing and speaking at any time previous to your brother's attainment of the age of thirty; and should you enter into possession of the estates, and allow your brother to enjoy the whole or greater part of the revenues, in direct contradiction to the spirit of your father's will, the estates would become liable to confiscation by his highness the duke. In this case your brother and yourself would alike be ruined.

"Now, the advice that these lawyers give is this: A memorial should be addressed to his highness, exhibiting that you refuse to undergo any surgical treatment or operation for the restoration of the faculties of hearing and speech, inasmuch as you would not wish to deprive your brother of the enjoyment of the estates nor of the title conferred by their possession: that you therefore solicit a decree, confirming his title of nobility, and dispensing with the prerogative of confiscation on the part of the prince, should you recover the faculties of hearing and speech, and act in opposition to the will of your late father in respect to the power of alienating the estates from your own possession.

"Such, my generous-minded friend, is the counsel offered by eminent advocates; and, by the memory of your sainted mother, if not for the sake of your own happiness, I implore you to act in accordance with these suggestions. You will remember that this advice pretty accurately corresponds with that which I gave you, when, late on the night that the will was read, you quitted your sleepless couch and came to my dwelling to consult me on a point so intimately connected with your felicity in this world.

"Your sincerely devoted friend, "JERONYMO DURAS."

While Nisida was occupied in the perusal of the first paragraph of this letter, dark clouds lowered upon her brow; but as she read the second paragraph, wherein the salutary advice of the lawyers was conveyed to her, those clouds rapidly dispersed, and her splendid countenance became lighted up with joyous, burning, intoxicating hope!

It was evident that she had already made up her mind to adopt the counsel proffered her by the eminent advocates whom the friendly physician had consulted on her behalf.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE SUBURB OF ALLA CROCE—THE JEW—THE ROBBER CHIEF'S LOVE.

It was past the hour of ten on Saturday night, when a tall, powerfully built man emerged from what might be termed the fashionable portion of the city of Florence, and struck into the straggling suburb of Alla Croce.

This quarter of the town was of marvelously bad reputation, being infested by persons of the worst description, who, by herding, as it were, together in one particular district, had converted the entire suburb into a sort of sanctuary where crime might take refuge, and into which the sbirri, or police-officers, scarcely dared to penetrate.

The population of Alla Croce was not, however, entirely composed of individuals who were at variance with the law, for poverty as well as crime sought an asylum in that assemblage of forbidding-looking dwellings, which formed so remarkable a contrast with the marble palaces, noble public buildings, and handsome streets of the city of Florence itself.

And not only did the denizens of penury and crushing toil, the artisans, the vine-dressers, the gardeners, the water-carriers, and the porters of Florence occupy lodgings in the suburb of Alla Croce, but even wealthy persons—yes, men whose treasures were vast enough to pay the ransom of princes—buried themselves and their hoards in this horrible neighborhood.

We allude to that most undeservedly-persecuted race, the Jews—a race endowed with many virtues and generous qualities, but whose characters have been blackened by a host of writers whose narrow minds and illiberal prejudices have induced them to preserve all the exaggerations and misrepresentations which tradition hands down in the Christian world relative to the cruelly-treated Israelite.

The enlightened commercial policy of those merchant princes, the Medici, had, during the primal glories of their administrative sway in the Florentine Republic, relaxed the severity of the laws against the Jews, and recognizing in the persecuted Israelites those grand trading and financial qualities which have ever associated the idea of wealth with their name, permitted them to follow unmolested their specific pursuits.

But at the time of which we are writing—the year 1521—the prince who had the reins of the Florentine Government, had yielded to the representations of a bigoted and intolerant clergy, and the Jews had once more become the subjects of persecution. The dissipated nobles extorted from them by menace those loans which would not have been granted on the security proffered; and the wealthy members of the "scattered race" actually began to discover that they could repose greater confidence in the refuse of the Florentine population than in the brilliant aristocracy, or even in the famous sbirri themselves. Thus had many rich Jews established themselves in the quarter of Alla Croce; and by paying a certain sum to the syndic, or magistrate of this suburb—a functionary elected by the inhabitants themselves, and in virtue of a law of their own enactment—the persecuted Israelites enjoyed comparative security and peace.

We now return to the man we left plunging into the suburbs of which we have afforded a short and necessary account.

This individual was dressed in simple attire, but composed of excellent materials. His vest was of dark velvet, slashed, but not embroidered; and on his breast he wore a jazeran, or mailed cuirass, which was not only lighter than a steel corselet, but was equally proof against poniard or pike. In his broad leather belt were stuck two pairs of pistols, and a long dagger; a heavy broadsword also hung by his side. His black boots came up nearly to the knee—in contravention of the prevailing fashion of that age, when these articles of dress seldom reached above the swell of the leg. A large slouched hat, without plumage or any ornament, was drawn down as much as possible over his features; and the broad mantello, or cloak, was gathered round the body in such a manner that it covered all the left side and the weapons fastened in the belt, but left the sword arm free for use in any sudden emergency.

Behind the wayfarer stretched the magnificent city of Florence, spreading over the deep vale, on both sides of the Arno, and, as usual, brilliant with light, like a world of stars shining in mimic rivalry of those that studded the purple vault above.

Before him were the mazes of the Alla Croce, the darkness of which suburb was only interrupted by a few straggling and feeble lights gleaming from houses of entertainment, or from huts whose poverty required not the protection of shutters to the casements.

And now, as one of those faint lights suddenly fell upon the wayfarer's countenance, as he passed the abode in which it shone—let us avail ourselves of the opportunity afforded by that glimpse, to state that this man's features were handsome, but coarse, bearing the traces of a dissolute life. His age was apparently forty; it might even have been a few years more matured—but his coal-black hair, mustachio, and bushy whiskers, unstreaked by silver, showed that time sat lightly on his head, in spite of the evident intimacy with the wine-cup above alluded to.

Having threaded the greater portion of the suburb, which was almost knee-deep in mud—for it had been raining nearly all day, and had only cleared up after sunset—the individual whom we have been describing stopped at the corner of a street, and gave a shrill whistle.

The signal was immediately answered in a similar fashion, and in a few minutes a man emerged from the darkness of a by-street. He also was well-armed, but much more plainly dressed than the other; and his countenance was such as would not have proved a very friendly witness in his favor in a court of justice.

"Lomellino?" said the first individual whom we have described in this chapter.

"Captain Stephano!" responded the other.

"All right, my fine lad," returned the bandit-captain. "Follow me."

The two robbers then proceeded in silence until they reached a house larger and stronger in appearance than any other in the same street. The shutters which protected the casements were massive and strengthened with iron bars and huge nails, somewhat after the fashion of church doors.

The walls were of solid gray stones, whereas those of the adjacent huts were of mud or wood. In a word, this dwelling seemed a little fortress in the midst of an exposed and unprotected town.

Before this house the robbers stopped.

"Do you remain on the other side of the street, Lomellino," said the bandit-chief; "and if need be, you will answer to my accustomed signal."

"Good, captain," was the reply; and Lomellino crossed over the way to the deep shade of the houses on that side.

Stephano then gave a low knock at the door of the well-defended dwelling above described.

Several minutes elapsed; and no sounds were heard within.

"The old usurer is at home, I know," muttered Stephano to himself; for the moment he had knocked a gleam of light, peeping through a crevice in an upper casement, had suddenly disappeared. He now rapped more loudly at the door with the handle of his heavy broadsword.

"Ah! he comes!" muttered the bandit-chief, after another long pause.

"Who knocks so late?" demanded a weak and tremulous voice from within.

"I—Stephano Verrina!" cried the brigand pompously: "open—and fear not."

The bolts were drawn back—a chain fell heavily on the stone floor inside—and the door opened, revealing the form of an old and venerable-looking man, with a long white beard. He held a lamp in his hand: and, by its fitful glare, his countenance, of the Jewish cast, manifested an expression denoting the terror which he vainly endeavored to conceal.

"Enter. Signor Stephano," said the old man. "But wherefore here so late?"

"Late, do ye call it. Signor Isaachar?" ejaculated the bandit, crossing the threshold. "Meseems there is yet time to do a world of business this night, for those who have the opportunity and the inclination."

"Ah! but you and yours turn night into day," replied the Jew, with a chuckle intended to be of a conciliatory nature: "or rather you perform your avocations at a time when others sleep."

"Every one to his calling, friend Isaachar," said the brigand chief. "Come! have you not made that door fast enough yet? you will have to open it soon again—for my visit will be none of the longest."

The Jew having replaced the chains and fastened the huge bolts which protected the house-door, took up the lamp and led the way to a small and meanly-furnished room at the back of his dwelling.

"What business may have brought you hither to-night, good Captain Verrina?" he inquired in a tone of ill-subdued apprehension.

"Not to frighten thee out of thy wits, good Isaachar," responded Stephano, laughing.

"Ah! ha!" exclaimed the Jew, partially reassured: "perhaps you have come to repay me the few crowns I had the honor to lend you—without security, and without interest——"

"By my patron saint! thou wast never more mistaken in thy life, friend Isaachar!" interrupted the robber chief. "The few crowns you speak of, were neither more nor less than a tribute paid on consideration that my men should leave unscathed the dwelling of worthy Isaachar ben Solomon: in other words, that thy treasures should be safe at least from them."

"Well—well! be it so!" cried the Jew. "Heaven knows I do not grudge the amount in question—although," he added slowly, "I am compelled to pay almost an equal sum to the syndic."

"The syndic of Alla Croce and the captain of the banditti are two very different persons," returned Stephano. "The magistrate protects you from those over whom he has control: and I, on my side, guaranty you against the predatory visits of those over whom I exercise command. But let us to business."

"Ay—to business!" echoed the Jew, anxious to be relieved from the state of suspense into which this visit had thrown him.

"You are acquainted with the young, beautiful, and wealthy Countess of Arestino, Isaachar?" said the bandit.

The Jew stared at him in increased alarm, now mingled with amazement.

"But, in spite of all her wealth," continued Stephano, "she was compelled to pledge her diamonds to thee, to raise the money wherewith to discharge a gambling debt contracted by her lover, the high-born, handsome, but ruined Marquis of Orsini."

"How knowest thou all this?" inquired the Jew.

"From her ladyship's own lips," responded Stephano. "At least she told me she had raised the sum to accommodate a very particular friend. Now, as the transaction is unknown to her husband, and as I am well assured that the Marquis of Orsini is really on most excellent terms with her ladyship—moreover, as this same marquis did pay a certain heavy gambling debt within an hour after the diamonds were pledged to you—it requires but little ingenuity to put all these circumstances together, to arrive at the result which I have mentioned. Is it not so, Isaachar?"

"I know not the motive for which the money was raised," answered the Jew, wondering what was coming next.

"Oh! then the money was raised with you," cried Stephano, "and consequently you hold the diamonds."

"I did not say so—I——"

"A truce to this fencing with my words!" ejaculated the bandit, impatiently. "I have an unconquerable desire to behold these diamonds——"

"You, good captain!" murmured Isaachar, trembling from head to foot.

"Yes, I! And wherefore not? Is there anything so marvelous in a man of my refined tastes and exquisite notions taking a fancy to inspect the jewels of one of the proudest beauties of gay Florence? By my patron saint! you should thank me that I come in so polite a manner to request a favor, the granting of which I could so easily compel without all this tedious circumlocution."

"The diamonds!" muttered the Jew, doubtless troubled at the idea of surrendering the security which he held for a very considerable loan.

"Perdition seize the man!" thundered Stephano, now waxing angry. "Yes, the diamonds, I say; and fortunate will it be for you if they are produced without further parley."

Thus speaking the bandit suffered his cloak to fall from over his belt, and the Jew's quick eye recoiled from the sight of those menacing weapons, with which his visitor was armed, as it were, to the teeth.

Then without further remonstrance, but with many profound sighs, Isaachar proceeded to fetch a small iron box from another room; and in a few moments the diamond case, made of sandal wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, was in the bandit captain's hands.

"Let me convince myself that it is all right!" exclaimed Stephano, examining the lid of the case. "Yes, there are the arms of Arestino, with the ciphers of the Countess, G. A.—Giulia Arestino—a very pretty name, by my troth! Ah, how the stones sparkle!" he cried, as he opened the case. "And the inventory is complete, just as it was described to me by her ladyship. You are a worthy man, Isaachar, a good man; you will have restored tranquillity to the mind of the beautiful countess," continued Stephano, in a bantering tone: "and she will be enabled to appear at court to-morrow, with her husband. Good-night, Isaachar; my brave men shall receive orders to the effect that the first who dares to molest you may reckon upon swinging to the highest tree that I can find for his accommodation."

"You violate your compact, Signor Verrina!" exclaimed the Jew, his rage now mastering his fears. "Wherefore should I pay you tribute to protect me, when you enter my house and rob me thus vilely?"

"In this case a lady is concerned, good Isaachar," responded the bandit, calmly; "and you know that with all true cavaliers the ladies are pre-eminent. Once more, a fair night's repose, my much respected friend."

Thus saying, Stephano Verrina rose from the seat on which he had been lounging; and the Jew, knowing that altercation and remonstrance were equally useless, hastened to afford the means of egress to so unwelcome a visitor.

Stephano lingered a moment opposite the house until he heard the door bolted and chained behind him; then crossing the street, he rejoined his follower, Lomellino.

"All right, captain?" said the latter, inquiringly.

"All right!" answered Stephano. "Poor Isaachar is inconsolable, no doubt; but the countess will be consoled at his expense. Thus it is with the world, Lomellino; what is one person's misery is another's happiness."

"Dost grow sentimental, good captain?" exclaimed the man, whose ears were entirely unaccustomed to such language on the part of his chief.

"Lomellino, my friend," answered Verrina, "when a man is smitten in a certain organ, commonly called the heart, he is apt to give utterance to that absurdity which the world denominates sentiment. Such is my case."

"You are, then, in love, captain?" said Lomellino, as they retraced their way through the suburb of Alla Croce.

"Just so," replied the bandit chief. "I will tell you how it happened. Yesterday morning, when those impertinent sbirri gave me a harder run than I have ever yet experienced, I was fain to take refuge in the garden of that very same Signor Wagner——"

"Who was yesterday arrested for murder?" interrupted Lomellino.

"The identical one," returned Stephano. "I concealed myself so well that I knew I might bid defiance to those bungling sbirri—although their scent was sharpened by the hope of the reward set on my head by the prince. While I thus lay hidden, I beheld a scene that would have done good to the heart of even such a callous fellow as yourself—I mean callous to female qualifications. In a word, I saw one woman stab another as effectually as——"

"But it was Wagner who killed the woman!" ejaculated Lomellino.

"No such thing," said Stephano quietly. "The murderess is of the gentle sex—though she can scarcely be gentle in disposition. And such a splendid creature, Lomellino! I beheld her countenance for a few minutes, as she drew aside her veil that her eyes might glare upon her victim; and I whispered to myself, 'That woman must be mine; she is worthy of me!' Then the blow descended—her victim lay motionless at her feet—and I never took my eyes off the countenance of the murderess. 'She is an incarnate fiend,' I thought, 'and admirably fitted to mate with the bandit captain.' Such was my reflection then; and the lapse of a few hours has only served to strengthen the impression. You may now judge whether I have formed an unworthy attachment!"

"She is worthy of you, captain!" exclaimed Lomellino. "Know you who she is?"

"Not a whit," replied Stephano Verrina. "I should have followed her when she left the garden, and complimented her on her proficiency in handling a poniard, but I was not so foolhardy as to stand the chance of meeting the sbirri. Moreover, I shall speedily adopt measures to discover who and what she is; and when I present myself to her, and we compare qualifications, I do not think there can arise any obstacle to our happiness—as lovers are accustomed to say."

"Then it was she who murdered the Lady Agnes?" said Lomellino.

"Have I not told you so? Signor Wagner is as innocent of that deed as the babe unborn; but it is not for me to step forward in his behalf, and thereby criminate a lady on whom I have set my affections."

"That were hardly to be expected captain," returned Lomellino.

"And all that I have now told thee thou wilt keep to thyself," added Stephano; "for to none else of the band do I speak so freely as to thee."

"Because no one is so devoted to his captain as I," rejoined Lomellino. "And now that we are about to separate," added the man, as they reached the verge of the suburb, which was then divided by a wide, open space from the city itself, and might even be termed a detached village—"now that we are about to separate, captain, allow me to ask whether the affair of Monday night still holds good?"

"The little business at the Riverola Palace, you mean?" said Stephano. "Most assuredly! You and Piero will accompany me. There is little danger to be apprehended; and Antonio has given me the necessary information. Count Francisco sleeps at a great distance from the point where we must enter; and as for his sister—she is as deaf as if she had her ears sealed up."

"But what about the pages, the lackeys——"

"Antonio will give them all a sleeping draught. Everything," added the robber-chief, "is settled as cleverly as can be."

"Antonio is your cousin, if I err not?" said Lomellino.

"Something of the kind," replied Stephano; "but what is better and more binding—we are friends. And yet, strange to say, I never was within the precincts of the Riverola mansion until the night before last, and—more singular still—I have never, to my knowledge, seen any members of the family in whose service Antonio has been so long."

"Why, Florence is not much honored with your presence during the day-time," observed Lomellino; "and at night the great lords and high-born ladies who happen to be abroad, are so muffled up—the former in their cloaks, the latter in their veils——"

"True—true; I understand all you would say, Lomellino," interrupted the captain; "but you know how to be rather tedious at times. Here we separate, I repair to the Arestino Palace, and you——"

"To the cavern," replied Lomellino: "where I hope to sleep better than I did last night," he added.

"What! a renewal of those infernal shriekings and screamings, that seem to come from the bowels of the earth?" exclaimed the captain.

"Worse than ever," answered Lomellino. "If they continue much longer, I must abandon my office of treasure-keeper, which compels me to sleep in the innermost room——"

"That cannot be allowed, my worthy friend," interrupted the captain; "for I should not know whom to appoint in your place. If it were not that we should not betray our own stronghold," continued Stephano, emphatically, "we would force our way into the nest of our noisy neighbors, and levy such a tribute upon them as would put them on their good behavior for the future."

"The scheme is really worth consideration," remarked Lomellino.

"We will talk more of it another time," said the captain. "Good-night, Lomellino. I shall not return to the cavern until very late."

The two banditti then separated—Lomellino striking off to the right, and Stephano Verrina pursuing his way toward the most aristocratic quarter of Florence.