Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

CHAPTER LX.

It was verging toward midnight, and the moon was concealed behind dark clouds, when a tall figure, muffled in a cloak, climbed over the railing which inclosed one portion of the spacious garden attached to the Riverola Palace. That person was Fernand Wagner. He had arrived in Florence two days before that on which Nisida returned to the ancestral dwelling:—he had entered the city boldly and openly in the joyous sun-light—and yet no one molested him. He even encountered some of the very sbirri who had arrested him in the preceding month of February; they saluted him respectfully—thus showed that they recognized him—but offered not to harm him. His trial, his condemnation, and his escape appeared all to have been forgotten. He repaired to his mansion; his servants, who had remained in possession of the dwelling, received him with demonstrations of joy and welcome as if he had just returned under ordinary circumstances from a long journey. Truly, then, he was blessed by the protection of Heaven. And—more wondrous still—on entering his favorite room he beheld all his pictures in their proper places, as if none of them had ever been removed—as if the confiscation of several by the criminal tribunal had never taken place. Over the one which had proclaimed the secret of his doom to the judges and the audience on the occasion of his trial, still hung the black cloth; and an undefinable curiosity—no, not a sentiment of curiosity, but one of hope—impelled him to remove the covering. And how exquisite was his joy, how great his amazement, how sincere his thanksgivings, when he beheld but a blank piece of canvas. The horrible picture of the Wehr-Wolf, a picture which he had painted when in a strangely morbid state of mind—had disappeared. Here was another sign of Heaven’s goodness—a further proof of celestial mercy.

On instituting inquiries, Fernand had learnt that Donna Nisida had not yet come back to Florence: but he employed trusty persons to watch and give him notice of her arrival the instant it should occur. Thus Nisida had not been half an hour at the Riverola mansion when Fernand was made acquainted with her return. From the conversation which had taken place between them at various times on the island, and as the reader is well aware, Wagner felt convinced that Nisida would again simulate deafness and dumbness; and he was therefore desirous to avoid giving her any surprise by appearing abruptly before her—a proceeding which might evoke a sudden ejaculation, and thus betray her secret. Moreover, he knew not whether circumstances would render his visits, made in a public manner, agreeable to her: and, perhaps—pardon him, gentle reader—perhaps he was also curious to learn whether she still thought of him, or whether the excitement of her return had absorbed all tender feelings of that nature.

Influenced by these various motives, Wagner muffled himself in a long Tuscan cloak and repaired to the vicinity of the Riverola mansion. He passed through the gardens without encountering any one, and, perceiving a side door open, he entered the building. Ascending the stairs, he thought that he should be acting in accordance with the advice given him by Rosencrux, and also consistent with prudence, were he at once to seek an interview with Nisida privately. He therefore repaired in the direction of the principal saloons of the palace; but losing his way amidst the maze of corridors, he was about to retire, when he beheld the object of his search, the beautiful Nisida, enter a room with a lamp in hand. He now felt convinced that he should meet her alone, and he hurried after her. In pursuance of his cautious plan, he opened the door gently, and was already in the middle of the apartment, when he perceived Nisida standing by the side of a bed, and with her head fixed in that immovable manner which indicates intent gazing upon some object. Instantly supposing that some invalid reposed in that couch, and now seized with a dreadful alarm lest Nisida, on beholding him, should utter a sudden ejaculation which would betray the secret of her feigned dumbness, Fernand considerately retreated with all possible speed: nor was he aware that Nisida had observed him, much less that his appearance there had excited such fears in her breast, those fears being greatly enhanced by his negligence in leaving the door open behind him.

Oh! had Nisida known it was thou, Fernand Wagner, how joyous, how happy she would have been; for the conviction that she bore the pledge of your mutual passion had made her heart yearn that eve to meet with thee again. And was it a like attraction on thy part, or the mysterious influence that now guided all thy movements, which induced thee at midnight to enter the Riverola gardens again, that thou mightest be, as it were, upon the same spot where she dwelt, and scent the fragrance of the same flowers that perfumed the atmosphere which she breathed? Oh! doubtless it was that mysterious influence; for thou hast now that power within thee which made thee strong to resist all the blandishments of the siren, and to prefer the welfare of thine own soul to aught in this world beside!

We said, then, at the commencement of this chapter that Fernand entered the Riverola gardens shortly after midnight. But scarcely had he crossed the iron railings, turned into the nearest path formed by shrubs and evergreens, when he was startled by hearing another person enter the grounds in the same unceremonious manner. Fernand accordingly stood aside in the deep shade of the trees; and in a few moments a figure, muffled like himself in a cloak, passed him rapidly by. Wagner was debating in himself what course he should pursue—for he feared that some treachery was intended toward Nisida—when to his boundless surprise, he heard the mysterious visitant say in a low tone. “Is it you, lady?”—to which question the unmistakable and never-to-be-forgotten voice of his Nisida answered, “’Tis I, Demetrius. Follow me noiselessly, and breathe not another word for the present!”

Fernand was shocked and grieved at what he had just heard, and which savored so strongly of an intrigue. Had not his ears deceived him? was this the Nisida from whom he had parted but little more than three weeks back, and who had left him that tender note which he had found in the hut on the island? But he had no time for reflection; the pair were moving rapidly toward the mansion—and Wagner unhesitatingly followed, his footsteps being soundless on the damp soil of the borders of flowers, and his form being concealed by the shade of the tall evergreens which he skirted.

He watched Nisida and her companion until they disappeared by a small private door at the back of the mansion; and this door was by them incautiously left unlocked, though shut close. It opened rapidly to Wagner’s hand, and he found himself at the foot of a dark staircase, the sound of ascending steps on which met his ears. Up that narrow flight he sped, noiselessly but hastily; and in a few moments he was stopped by another door which had just closed behind those whom he was following. Here he was compelled to pause, in the hope that the partition might not be so thick as completely to intercept the sounds of the voices in the chamber; but after listening with breathless attention for a few minutes, he could not catch even the murmuring of a whisper. It now struck him that Nisida and her companion might have passed on into a room more remote than the one to which that door had admitted them; and he resolved to follow on. Accordingly, he opened the door with such successful precaution that not a sound—not even the creaking of the hinge was the result; and he immediately perceived that there was a thick curtain within; for it will be recollected that this door was behind the drapery of Nisida’s bed. At the same time, a light, somewhat subdued by the thick curtain, appeared; and the sound of voices met Fernand’s ears.

“Signor,” said the melodious voice of Nisida, in its sweetest, softest tones, “it is due to myself to tender fitting excuse for introducing you thus into my private chamber; but the necessity of discoursing together without fear of interruption, and in some place that is secure from the impertinence of eavesdroppers, must serve as an apology.”

“Lady,” replied Demetrius, “it needed no explanation of your motive in bringing me hither to command on my part that respect which is due to you.”

A weight was removed from Wagner’s mind: it was assuredly no tender sentiment that had brought Nisida and the Greek together this night; and the curiosity of Fernand was therefore excited all the more strongly.

“We will not waste time in unnecessary parlance,” resumed Nisida, after a short pause; “nor must you seek to learn the causes—the powerful causes, which have urged me to impose upon myself the awful sacrifice involved in the simulation of loss of speech and hearing. Suffice it for you to know that, when on board the kapitan-pasha’s ship, I overheard every syllable of the conversation which one day took place between the apostate Ibrahim and yourself,—a conversation wherein you gave a detailed account of all your proceedings at Florence, and in the course of which you spoke feelingly of your sister Calanthe.”

“Alas! poor Calanthe!” exclaimed Demetrius, in a mournful tone; “and is she really no more?”

“Listen to me while I relate the manner in which I became aware of her fate,” said Nisida.

She then explained the treacherous visit of the grand vizier to the cabin wherein she had slept on board the Ottoman admiral’s ship—the way in which the Ethiopian slave had interfered to save her—and the conversation that had taken place between Ibrahim and the negro, revealing the dread fate of Calanthe.

“Is it possible that I have served so faithfully a man possessed of such a demon-heart?” cried Demetrius. “But I will have vengeance, lady; yes, the murdered Calanthe shall be avenged!”

“And I too must have vengeance upon the proud and insolent vizier who sought to violate all the laws of hospitality in respect to me,” observed Nisida, “and who seeks to marry his sister, the low-born Flora, the sister of the base renegade, to the illustrious scion of the noble house of Riverola! Vengeance, too, must I have upon the wretch Antonio, the panderer to my father’s illicit and degrading amours—the miscreant who sought to plunder this mansion, and who even dared to utter threats against me in that conversation with his accomplice Venturo, which you, signor, overheard in the streets of Florence. This game wretch it is, too, who consigned my brother to the custody of banditti; and though, for certain reasons, I deplore not that captivity which Francisco has endured, inasmuch as it has effectually prevented him from interesting himself on behalf of Flora Francatelli, yet as Antonio was animated by vengeance only in so using my brother, he shall pay the penalty due on account of all his crimes!”

“And in the task of punishing Antonio, lady,” said Demetrius, “shall I be right glad to aid—for did not the villain deceive me infamously in respect to the dispatches which I sought to forward to Constantinople when last I was at Florence? and, not contented with that vile treachery, even plotted with his accomplice Venturo against my life.”

“Vengeance, then, upon our enemies, Demetrius!” exclaimed Nisida. “And this is how our aims shall be accomplished,” she continued, in a lower and less excited tone: “The ambitious views of Ibrahim Pasha must experience a signal defeat; and as he is too powerful to be personally injured by us, we must torture his soul by crushing his relations—we must punish him through the medium of his sister and his aunt. This evening I had a long discourse with Dr. Duras, who is devoted to my interests, and over whom I wield a wondrous power of persuasion. He has undertaken to induce his brother, Angelo Duras, to abandon the cause of the Francatellis; and the inquisition will, therefore, deal with them as it lists. Father Marco I can also manage as I will; he understands the language in which the deaf and dumb converse, for he has so long been confessor to our family. To-morrow I will undertake to send him to Rome on some charitable mission connected with the church. Thus the only persons whom you secured when last you were in Florence, in the interests of the Francatellis, will cease to watch over them; and, as they are accused of being accomplices in the sacrilege perpetrated in the Carmelite Convent, naught will save them from the flames of the auto-da-fe.”

“Oh! spirit of the murdered Calanthe,” exclaimed Demetrius, with savage joy, “thou wilt be avenged yet! And thou, false vizier, shalt writhe in the flames at the stake!”

“Now, as for Antonio, and the rest of the banditti who stormed the convent and gave freedom to the hated Flora—who have likewise captured my brother—and who have so long been a terror to Florence,” continued Nisida; “we must annihilate them all at one blow; not a soul of the gang must be spared!”

Nisida knew full well that at least some of the banditti were acquainted with the fact that she was the murderess of Agnes, and that they could also tell an awkward tale of how she sought to bribe them to rescue Fernand Wagner in case of an adverse judgment on the part of the criminal tribunal. The total annihilation of the horde was consequently the large aim at which she aspired, and her energetic mind shrunk not from any difficulties that might appear in the way toward the execution of that object.

“The design is grand, but not without its obstacles,” observed Demetrius. “Your ladyship will moreover adopt measures to rescue the Lord Count of Riverola first.”

“By means of gold everything can be accomplished amongst villains,” returned Nisida, “and the necessary preliminaries to the carrying out of our object rest with you, signor. To-morrow morning must you seek Antonio. He knows not that you suspect his villainy and, as you will say nothing relative to the failure in the arrival of your dispatches at Constantinople, he will rest secure in the belief that you have not yet discovered that deed of treachery. You must represent yourself as the mortal enemy of the Count of Riverola, and so speak as to lead Antonio to confess to you where he is and offer to become the instrument of your vengeance. Then bribe Antonio heavily to deliver up Francisco into your power to-morrow night at a particular hour, and at a place not far from the spot where you know the secret entrance of the banditti’s stronghold to be.”

“All this, lady,” said Demetrius, “can be easily arranged. Antonio would barter his soul for gold; much more readily, then, will he sell the Count of Riverola to one who bids high for the possession of the noble prisoner.”

“But this is not all,” resumed Nisida, “’tis merely the preface to my plan. So soon as the shades of to-morrow’s evening shall have involved the earth in obscurity, a strong party of your soldiers, properly disguised, but well armed, must repair in small sections, or even singly, to that grove where you have already obtained a clew to the entrance of the robbers’ stronghold. Let them conceal themselves amongst the trees in the immediate vicinity of the enormous chestnut that overhangs the precipice. When the robbers emerge from their lurking-place with Francisco, your soldiers will immediately seize upon them. Should you then discover the secret of the entrance to the stronghold, the object will be gained,—your men will penetrate into the subterranean den,—and the massacre of the horde will prove an easy matter. But should it occur that those banditti who may be employed in leading forth my brother, do shut up the entrance of their den so speedily that your dependents discover not its secrets, then must we trust to bribery or threats to wrest that secret from the miscreants. At all events Antonio will be present to accompany Francisco to the place which you will appoint to meet them; and as the villain will fall into your power, it will perhaps prove less difficult to induce him to betray his comrades, than it might be to persuade any of the banditti themselves.”

“Lady, your plan has every element of success,” observed Demetrius; “and all shall be done as you suggest. Indeed, I will myself conduct the expedition. But should you thus at once effect the release of Don Francisco, will he not oppose your designs relative to the condemnation of Flora Francatelli by the inquisition?”

“Dr. Duras is well acquainted with the precise process,” answered Nisida; “and from him I learnt that the third examination of the prisoners will take place to-morrow, when judgment will be pronounced should no advocate appear to urge a feasible cause of delay.”

“The arrests took place on the 3d of July,” said Demetrius; “and Angelo Duras undertook to obtain a postponement for three months. To-morrow, lady, is but the 26th of September.”

“True,” responded Nisida; “but were a delay granted, it would be for eight days—and thus you perceive how nicely Angelo Duras had weighed all the intricacies of the case, and how accurately he had calculated the length of the term to be gained by the exercise of the subtleties of the inquisitorial law. Therefore, as no advocate will appear to demand delay, Flora is certain to be condemned to-morrow night, and the release of Francisco may take place simultaneously—for when once the grand inquisitor shall have pronounced the extreme sentence, no human power can reverse it. And now,” added Nisida, “but one word more. The grand vizier commanded you to dispatch a courier daily to Leghorn with full particulars of all your proceedings; see that those accounts be of a nature to lull the treacherous Ibrahim into security—for, were he to learn that his aunt and sister are in dread peril, he would be capable of marching at the head of all his troops to sack the city of Florence.”

“Fear not on that subject, lady,” answered Demetrius. “I will so amuse the demon-hearted grand vizier by my dispatches, that he shall become excited with joyous hopes—so that the blow—the dread blow which we are preparing for him—may be the more terribly severe.”

The Greek then rose to take his leave of Donna Nisida; and Wagner, having closed the secret door as noiselessly as he had opened it, hurried away from the Riverola mansion bewildered and grieved at all he had heard—for he could no longer conceal from himself that a very fiend was incarnate in the shape of her whom he had loved so madly.

Having tossed on a feverish couch for upward of an hour,—unable to banish from his mind the cold blooded plot which Nisida and Demetrius had resolved upon in order to consign Flora Francatelli and her equally innocent aunt to the stake,—Wagner at last slept through sheer exhaustion. Then Christianus Rosencrux appeared to him in a dream and said:—“Heaven hath chosen thee as the instrument to defeat the iniquitous purposes of Riverola in respect of two guiltless and deserving women. Angelo Duras is an upright man; but he is deluded and misled by the representations made to him by Nisida, through his brother, the physician, relative to the true character of Flora. In the evening at nine o’clock, hie to Angelo Duras—command him in the name of justice and humanity, to do his duty toward his clients—and he will obey thee. Then, having performed this much, speed thou without delay to Leghorn, and seek the grand vizier, Ibrahim Pasha. To him shalt thou merely state that Demetrius is a traitor, and that tremendous perils hang over the heads of the vizier’s much-loved relatives. Manifest no hatred to the vizier on account of his late treacherous intention with regard to the honor of Nisida: for vengeance belongeth not to mortals. And in these measures only, of all the deeply ramified plots and designs which thou didst hear discussed between Nisida and Demetrius, shall thou interfere. Leave the rest to Heaven.”

The founder of the Rosicrucians disappeared: and when Fernand awoke late in the day—for his slumber had been long and deep—he remembered the vision which he had seen, and resolved to obey the order he had received.

Beneath the massive and heavy tower of the Palazzo del Podesta, or Ducal Palace of Florence, was the tribunal of the holy inquisition. Small, low, and terribly somber in appearance was this court—with walls of the most solid masonry, an arched roof, and a pavement formed of vast blocks of dark-veined marble. Thither the light of heaven never penetrated; for it was situate far below the level of the earth, and at the very foundation of that tower which rose, frowning and sullen, high above. Iron lamps diffused a lurid luster around, rendering ghastly the countenance alike of the oppressors and the oppressed; and when it was deemed necessary to invest the proceedings with a more awe-inspiring solemnity than usual, torches, borne by the familiars or officers of the inquisition, were substituted for these iron lamps. Over the judgment-seat was suspended a large crucifix. On one side of the court were three doors,—one communicating with the corridor and flight of stone steps leading to and from the tribunal; the second affording admission into the torture-chamber and the third opening to the prisons of the inquisition.

It was about seven o’clock in the evening, on the 26th of September, that Flora Francatelli and her aunt were placed before the grand inquisitor, to be examined for the second time. When the familiars, habited in their long, black, ecclesiastical dresses with the strange cowls or hoods shading their stern and remorseless countenances, led in the two females from the separate cells in which they had been confined, the first and natural impulse of the unhappy creatures was to rush into each other’s arms;—but they were immediately torn rudely asunder, and so stationed in the presence of the grand inquisitor as to have a considerable interval between them.

But the glances which the aunt and niece exchanged, gave encouragement and hope to each other, and the sentiments which prompted those glances were really cherished by the persecuted females; inasmuch as Father Marco, who had been permitted to visit them occasionally, dropped sundry hints of coming aid, and powerful, though invisible, protection—thereby cheering their hearts to some little extent, and mitigating the intensity of their apprehensions. Flora was very pale—but never, perhaps, had she appeared more beautiful—for her large blue eyes expressed the most melting softness, and her dark brown hair hung disheveled over her shoulders, while her bosom heaved with the agitation of suspense.

“Woman,” said the grand inquisitor, glancing first to the aunt and then to the niece, his eyes, however, lingering upon the latter, “know ye of what ye are accused? Let the younger speak first.”

“My lord,” answered Flora, in a firmer tone than might have been expected from the feelings indicated by her outward appearance, “when on a former occasion I stood in the presence of your eminence, I expressed my belief that secret enemies were conspiring, for their own bad purposes, to ruin my beloved relative and myself; and yet I call Heaven to witness my solemn declaration that knowingly and willfully we have wronged no one by word or deed.”

“Young woman,” exclaimed the grand inquisitor, “thou hast answered my questions evasively. Wast thou not an inmate of that most holy sanctuary, the convent of Carmelite nuns? wast thou not there the companion of Giulia of Arestino? did not a sacrilegious horde of miscreants break into the convent, headed or at least accompanied by a certain Manuel d’Orsini who was the lover of the countess? was not this invasion of the sacred place undertaken to rescue that guilty woman? and did she not find an asylum at the abode of your aunt, doubtless with your connivance, until the day of her arrest?”

“None of those circumstances, my lord,” replied Flora, “do I attempt to deny: but it is so easy to give them a variety of colorings, some of which, alas! may seem most unfavorable to my venerable relative and to myself. Oh, my lord, do with me what thou wilt,” exclaimed Flora, clasping her hands together in a single paroxysm of anguish; “but release that aged woman, suffer not my beloved aunt—my more than mother to be thus persecuted! have mercy, my lord, upon her—oh! have mercy, great judge, upon her.”

“Flora—dearest Flora,” cried Dame Francatelli, the tears trickling fast down her countenance, “I do not wish to leave you—I do not seek to be set free—I will stay in this dreadful place so long as you remain a prisoner also; for though we are separated——”

“Woman,” exclaimed the grand inquisitor, not altogether unmoved by this touching scene, “the tribunal cannot take heed of supplications and prayers of an impassioned nature. It has to do with facts, not feelings.”

At this moment there was a slight sensation amongst the familiars stationed near the door of the judgment-hall; and an individual who had just entered the court, and who wore the black robe and the cap or toque of a counselor, advanced toward the grand inquisitor.

“My lord,” said the advocate, with a reverential bow, “the day after the arrest of these females, I submitted to the council of state a memorial, setting forth certain facts which induced the president of the council to issue his warrant to order the postponement of the second examination of the two prisoners now before your eminence, until this day.”

“And the case has been postponed accordingly,” answered the grand inquisitor. “It will now proceed, unless reasonable cause be shown for further delay. The prisoners are obstinate. Instead of confessing their heinous crimes, and throwing themselves on the mercy of Heaven—for past the hope of human mercy they are—they assuredly break forth into impassioned language, savoring of complaint. Indeed, the younger attributes to the machinations of unknown enemies the position in which she is placed. Yet have we positive proof that she was leagued with those who perpetrated the sacrilege which ended in the destruction of the Carmelite Convent; and the elder prisoner gave refuge not only to the young girl, her niece, but also to a woman more guilty still—thus rendering herself infamous as one who encouraged and concealed the enemies of the church, instead of giving them up to the most holy inquisition. Wherefore,” continued the grand inquisitor, “it remaineth only for me to order the prisoners to be put to the torture, that they may confess their crimes and receive the condemnation which they merit.”

At the terrible word “torture,” Dame Francatelli uttered a cry of agony—but it was even more on account of her beloved niece than herself; while Flora, endowed with greater firmness than her aunt, would have flown to console and embrace her, had not the familiars cruelly compelled the young maiden to retain her place.

“My lord,” said Angelo Duras—for he was the advocate who appeared on behalf of the prisoners—“I formally and earnestly demand a delay of eight days ere this final examination be proceeded with.”

“It is impossible,” returned the grand inquisitor, while his words went like ice-shafts to the hearts of the unhappy women. “In addition to the charges against them which I have already glanced at, it appeareth that one Alessandro Francatelli, who is nearly related to them both, hath abjured the Christian faith and become a Mussulman. This fact was reported many months ago to the council of state: and in the cottage lately habited by the prisoners was found a costly set of jewels, ornamented with sundry Moslem devices and symbols, all of which are hateful to the true Catholic. It is therefore natural to suppose that they themselves have secretly abjured their country’s religion, and have already received the reward of their apostasy.”

“No—never, never!” exclaimed the aunt, clasping her hands together, and showing more anguish by this cruel suspicion than by any other portion of the treatment which she had received at the hands of the inquisition.

On her side, Flora appeared to be astounded at the accusation made against her aunt and herself by the grand inquisitor.

“My lord,” said Angelo Duras, “the very statement which has just been put forth by your eminence furnishes a new ground whereon I base my requisition for a delay of eight days, in order to prepare a fitting defense on behalf of the prisoners. The council of state is now sitting in deliberation on certain demands made by the newly arrived Ottoman envoy, and should your eminence refuse my requisition for a delay, it will be my duty forthwith to apply to that august body.”

The grand inquisitor endeavored to reason with the advocate on the inconvenience of obstructing the business of the tribunal—but Angelo Duras, knowing that he had the law on his side, was firm; and the judge was finally compelled to accord the delay. Flora and her aunt were accordingly conveyed back each to her separate cell; while Angelo Duras retired, murmuring to himself, “I shall doubtless offend my brother by my conduct in this respect, after my solemn promise to him to abandon the cause of the Francatellis; but I prefer having obeyed that young man of godlike aspect and persuasive manner who visited me ere now to abjure me not to neglect my duty.”

The next case that occupied the attention of the grand inquisitor on the present occasion was that of the Jew Isaachar ben Solomon. The old man was indeed a miserable spectacle. His garments hung loosely about his wasted and attenuated form—his countenance was wan and ghastly—but the fire of his eyes was not altogether quenched. He was heavily chained—and, as he walked between the two familiars who led him into the tribunal, he could scarcely drag himself along. For the persecuted old man had been confined for nearly seven months in the prison of the inquisition; and during that period he had suffered acutely with the damps of his dungeon—the wretched food doled out to him—and the anguish occasioned by conscious innocence unjustly accused of a dreadful crime.

“Jew,” said the grand inquisitor, “when last thou wast examined by me, thou didst obstinately refuse to confess thy grievous sins. This is the day for the final investigation of thy case: and thou may’st produce witnesses in thy favor, if thou canst.”

“My lord,” replied Isaachar ben Solomon, in a weak and tremulous voice, “unless Heaven should work a miracle in my favor, I have no hope in this life. I do not fear death, my lord; for, persecuted, reviled, despised, accused as I am, I can yet lay my hand on my heart and say I have never injured a fellow-creature. But, my lord,” he continued, his voice growing stronger with excitement, “it is sufficient that I am a Jew to insure my condemnation; and yet strange indeed is that Christian faith, or rather should I say, most inconsistent is the conduct of those who profess it, in so far as this ruthless persecution of my race is concerned. For where, my lord, is your charity, where is your tolerance, where is your mercy? If I be indeed involved in mental darkness, ’tis for you to enlighten me with argument, not coerce me with chains. Never have I insulted a Christian on account of his creed: wherefore should I be insulted in mine? Granting that the Jew is in error, he surely deserves pity, not persecution. For how came I by the creed which I profess? Even as your lordship obtained yours, which is that of Christian. Our parents reared us each in the belief which they respectively professed; and there is no more merit due to your eminence for being a Christian, than there is blame to be attached to me for being a Jew. Had all the religions of the earth been submitted to our consideration when we were children, and had it been said to each of us, ‘Select a faith for yourself,’ then there might be some merit in choosing the one most popular and the most assuredly conducive to personal safety. But such was not the case, my lord; and I am a Jew for the same reason that you are a Christian—and I cling to the creed of my forefathers even as you adhere tenaciously to that faith which your ancestors have handed down to you. Reproach me not, then, because I am a Jew. And now I will pass to another subject, my lord,” continued Isaachar, becoming more and more animated as he proceeded.

“I am accused of a fearful crime, of murder. The evidence rests upon the fact that stains of blood were observed upon the floor of a room in my house. The answer is simple. Two men—one of noble birth, the other a robber, fought in the room; and the blood of one of them flowed from a slight wound. This is the truth—and yet I know that I am not believed. Merciful heavens! of what would you accuse me? Of murder!—and it was hinted, when last I stood before your eminence, that the Jews have been known to slay Christian children as an offering to Heaven. My lord, the Jews worship the same God as the Christians—for the Christians adopt that book in which the Jews put faith. Then I appeal to your eminence whether the God whom the Christians worship would delight in such sacrifices?—and as you must answer ‘Nay,’ the reply acquits the Jews also of the hideous calumny sought to be affixed upon us. The Jews, my lord, are a merciful and humane race. The records of your tribunals will prove that the Jews are not addicted to the shedding of blood. They are too patient—enduring—and resigned, to be given to vengeance. Behold how they cling to each other—how they assist each other in distress;—and charity is not narrowed to small circles, my lord, it is a sentiment which must become expansive, because it nourisheth itself and is cherished by those good feelings which are its only reward. Think you, my lord, that if I saw a fellow-creature starving in the street, I should wait to ask him whether he were a Christian, a Jew, or a Mussulman? Oh! no—no; the world’s bread was given for men of all nations and all creeds!”

Isaachar would have continued his address to the grand inquisitor; but sheer exhaustion compelled him to desist—and he would have sunk upon the cold marble, had not the familiars supported him.

“By his own words is he convicted of disbelief in the most holy Catholic faith,” said the grand inquisitor. “But I find, by a memorial which was addressed to me many mouths ago—indeed, very shortly after the arrest of this miserable unbeliever—and signed by Manuel Marquis of Orsini, that the said marquis hath important evidence to give on behalf of the Jew. Now, though Manuel d’Orsini be himself a prisoner of the holy office, yet as he hath not yet been judged, he is a competent witness.”

Orders were then given to introduce the marquis; and Isaachar ben Solomon murmured to himself, “Is it possible that the young man can have felt sympathy for me? Ah, then I was not mistaken in him; in spite of his dissipation and his wildness he possesses a generous heart.”

In a few minutes the Marquis of Orsini was led into the judgment-hall. He was chained;—but he carried his head erect—and, though his countenance was pale and careworn, his spirit was not crushed. He bowed respectfully, but not cringingly, to the grand inquisitor, and bestowed a friendly nod of recognition upon the Jew.

“This memorial, dated in the month of March last, was signed by you?” said the grand inquisitor interrogatively, as he displayed a paper to the marquis.

“That memorial was signed by me,” answered Orsini, in a firm tone, “and I rejoice that your eminence has at length granted me an opportunity of explaining the matter hinted at therein. Your eminence sits there, it is presumed, to administer justice; then let justice be done toward this innocent man—albeit that he is a Jew—for solemnly do I declare that the blood which stained the floor in Isaachar’s house flowed from my right arm. And it may not be amiss to observe,” continued the marquis, “that the worthy Jew there did not only bind the wound for me with as much care as if I myself had been an Israelite, or he a Christian—but he moreover offered me the aid of his purse; and therefore am I under obligations to him which I can never wholly discharge. In good sooth, my lord,” added Manuel, in whom neither a lengthened imprisonment nor the awful solemnity of the present scene could entirely subdue the flippancy which was habitual to his speech,—“in good sooth, my lord, he is a splendid specimen of a Jew—and I pray your eminence to discharge him forthwith.”

“This levity ill becometh you, Manuel d’Orsini,” said the grand inquisitor; “for you yourself are in terrible danger.”

Then, upon a signal given, the familiars conveyed the marquis back to his dungeon: but ere he left the judgment-hall, he had the satisfaction of beholding the Jew’s eyes fixed upon him with an expression of boundless gratitude and deep sympathy. Tears, too, were trickling down the cheeks of the Israelite: for the old man thought within himself, “What matters it if the rack dislocate my limbs? But it is shocking—oh! it is shocking to reflect that thy fellow-creatures, noble youth, shall dare to deface and injure that godlike form of thine!”

“Jew,” suddenly exclaimed the grand inquisitor, “I put no faith in the testimony of the witness who has just appeared in thy favor. Confess thy sins—avow openly that thou hast murdered Christian children to obtain their blood for use in thy sacrifices—and seek forgiveness from Heaven by embracing the faith of Jesus!”

The unhappy Israelite was so appalled by the open, positive, and undisguised manner in which an atrocious charge was revived against him, that he lost all power of utterance, and stood stupefied and aghast.

“Away with him to the torture-chamber!” cried the grand inquisitor, in a stern and remorseless tone.

“Monster!” exclaimed the Jew, suddenly recovering his speech, as that dreadful mandate warned him that he would now require all his energy—all his presence of mind:—“monster!” he repeated, in a voice indicative of loathing and contempt;—“and thou art a Christian!”

The familiars hurried Isaachar away to the torture-chamber, which, as we before stated, opened upon the tribunal. And terrible, indeed, was the appearance of that earthly hell—that terrestrial hades, invented by fiends in human shape—that den of horrors constituting, indeed, a fitting foretaste of trans-stygian torment! The grand inquisitor followed the victim and the familiars into this awful place: and, on a signal being given by that high functionary, Isaachar was stripped of all his upper clothing, and stretched on the accursed rack. Then commenced the torture—the agonizing torture by means of that infernal instrument, a torture which dislocated the limbs, appeared to tear the members asunder, and produced sensations as if all the nerves of the body were suddenly being drawn out through the brain.

“Dost thou confess? and wilt thou embrace the Christian faith?” demanded the grand inquisitor from time to time.

“I have nothing to confess—I will not renounce the creed of my forefathers!” answered Isaachar in a tone of bitter agony, as he writhed upon the rack, while every fresh shock and jerk of the infernal engine seemed as if it would tear the very life out of him. But the old man remained firm in the declaration of his innocence of the dreadful crime imputed to him: stanch also to his creed did he remain; and having endured the full extent of that special mode of torture, he was borne back to his dungeon, cruelly injured, with dislocated limbs, blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils, and these terrible words of the grand inquisitor ringing in his ears—“Obstinate and impenitent one, Satan claims thee as his own; therefore art thou condemned to death by fire at the approaching auto de-fe!”

Half an hour afterward another human being lay stretched upon that accursed rack, and agonizing—oh! most agonizing were the female shrieks and rending screams which emanated from the lips of the tortured victim, but which reached not beyond the solid masonry of those walls and the massive iron-plated door. The white and polished arms were stretched out in a position fearfully painful beyond the victim’s head, and the wrists were fastened to a steel bar by means of a thin cord, which cut through flesh, muscle and nerve to the very bone! The ankles were attached in a similar manner to a bar at the lower end of the rack, and thus from the female’s hands and feet thick clots of gore fell on the stone pavement. But even the blood flowed not so fast from her lacerated limbs as streamed the big drops of agony from her distorted countenance—that countenance erst so beautiful, and so well beloved by thee, Manuel d’Orsini! For, oh! upon that rack lay stretched the fair and half-naked form of Giulia of Arestino, its symmetry convulsing in matchless tortures, the bosom palpitating awfully with the pangs of that earthly hell, and the exquisitely-modeled limbs enduring all the hideous pains of dislocation, as if the fibers that held them in their sockets were drawn out to a tension at which they must inevitably snap in halves!

But who gazes on that awful spectacle? whose ears drink in those agonizing screams, as if they made a delicious melody? With folded arms, compressed lips, and remorseless, though ashy pale countenance, the old Lord of Arestino stands near the rack; and if his eyes can for a moment quit that feast which they devour so greedily, it is but to glance with demoniac triumph toward Manuel d’Orsini, whom an atrocious refinement of cruelty, suggested by the vengeful count himself, has made a spectator of that appalling scene! And terrible are the emotions which rend the heart of the young marquis! But he is powerless—he cannot stretch forth a hand to save his mistress from the hellish torments which she is enduring, nor can he even whisper a syllable to inspire her with courage to support them. For he is bound tightly—the familiars, too, have him in their iron grasp, and he is gagged! Nevertheless he can see, and he can hear; he can behold the rending tortures of the rack—and he is compelled to listen to the piercing screams which the victim sends forth. If he close his eyes upon the horrible spectacle, imagination instantly makes it more horrible even still; and, moreover, in the true spirit of a chivalrous heart, he seeks by the tenderness of his glances to impart at least a gleam of solace to the soul of her who has undergone so much, and is suffering now so much more, through her fatal love of him! The grand inquisitor, who is an intimate friend of the Count of Arestino, ministers well and faithfully to the infernal vengeance of that old Italian noble: for the remorseless judge urges on the torturers to apply the powers of the rack to the fullest extent; and while the creaking sound of wheels mingles with the cracking noise of dislocating limbs, the Count of Arestino exclaims, “I was once humane and benevolent, Giulia, but thy conduct has made me a fiend!”

“A fiend!” shrieked the tormented woman: “Oh! yes—yes—thou art a fiend—a very fiend—I have wronged thee—but this vengeance is horrible—mercy—mercy!—oh! for one drop of water—mercy—mercy!”

The rack gave the last shock of which its utmost power was capable—a scream more dreadful, more agonizing, more piercing than any of its predecessors, rent this time the very walls of the torture-chamber: and with this last outburst of mortal agony, the spirit of the guilty Giulia fled forever! Yet was not the vengeance of the Count of Arestino satisfied; and the grand inquisitor was prepared to gratify the hellish sentiment to the fullest extent. The still warm and palpitating corpse of the countess was hastily removed from the rack: and the familiars stripped—nay, tore off the clothing of Manuel d’Orsini. The countenance of the young nobleman was now terribly somber, as if the darkest thoughts were occupying his inmost soul, and his eyes were bent fixedly on the dreadful engine, to the tortures of which it appeared to be his turn to submit.

The familiars, in order to divest him of his garments, and also to stretch him in such a way on the rack that his arms might be fastened over his head to the upper end of that instrument, had removed the chains and cords which had hitherto bound him. And now the fatal moment seemed to be at hand, and the familiars already grasped him rudely to hurl him on the rack, when, as if suddenly inspired by a superhuman strength, the young nobleman dashed the men from him; then, with lightning speed, he seized a massive iron bar that was used to move the windlass of the rack, and in another instant, before a saving arm could intervene, the deadly instrument struck down the Count of Arestino at the feet of the grand inquisitor, who started back with a cry of horror! The next moment the marquis was again powerless and secure in the grasp of the familiars—but he had accomplished his purpose, he had avenged his mistress and himself—and the old Lord of Arestino lay, with shattered skull, a corpse upon the cold pavement of the torture-chamber!

“Back—back with the murderer to his dungeon!” exclaimed the grand inquisitor, in a tone of fearful excitement and rage. “We must not afford him a chance of dying upon that engine of torture. No—no: the lingering flames of the auto-da-fe are reserved for the Marquis d’Orsini!”

And in pursuance of the sentence thus pronounced, Manuel was hurried away to his dark and solitary cell, there to remain a prey to all the dreadful thoughts which the occurrences of that fatal evening were so well calculated to marshal in horrible array to his imagination.

CHAPTER LXI.

While these awful scenes were being enacted in the subterranes of the holy inquisition, Demetrius was actively engaged in directing those plans and effecting those arrangements which the scheming disposition of Nisida of Riverola had suggested. We should observe that in the morning he had sought and found Antonio, with whom he had so expertly managed that the villain had fallen completely into the snare spread to entrap him, and had not only confessed that he held at his disposal the liberty of the Count of Riverola, but had also agreed to deliver him up to the Greek. In a word, every thing in this respect took place precisely as Nisida had foreseen. Accordingly, so soon as it was dark in the evening, sixty of the Ottoman soldiers quitted by two and threes the mansion which the Florentine Government had appropriated as a dwelling for the envoy and his suit. The men whom Demetrius thus intrusted with the execution of his scheme, and whose energy and fidelity he had previously secured by means of liberal reward and promise of more, were disguised in different ways, but were all well armed. To be brief, so well were the various dispositions taken, and so effectually were they executed, that those sixty soldiers had concealed themselves in the grove indicated by their master, without having excited in the minds of the Florentine people the least suspicion that anything unusual was about to take place. It was close upon eleven o’clock at night, when Demetrius, after having obtained a hasty interview with Nisida, whom he acquainted with the progress of the plot, repaired to the grove wherein his men were already distributed, and took his station in the midst of the knot of olives on the right of the huge chestnut tree which overhung the chasm.

Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed, and naught was heard save the waving of the branches and the rustling of the foliage, as the breeze of night agitated the grove; but at the expiration of that brief period, the sound of voices was suddenly heard close by the chestnut tree—not preceded by any footsteps nor other indication of the presence of men—and thus appearing as if they had all at once and in an instant emerged from the earth.

Not a moment had elapsed—no, not a moment—ere those individuals whose voices were thus abruptly heard, were captured and secured by a dozen Ottoman soldiers, who sprung upon them from the dense thickets around or dropped amongst them from the branches overhead—and so admirably was the swoop made, that five persons were seized, bound and held powerless and incapable of resistance ere the echo of the cry of alarm which they raised had died away in the maze of the grove. And simultaneously with the performance of this skillful maneuver, a shrill whistle was wafted from the lips of Demetrius through the wood, and as if by magic, a dozen torches were seen to light up and numbers of men, with naked scimiters gleaming in the rays of those firebrands, rushed toward the spot where the capture had been made. The effect of that sudden illumination—those flashing weapons—and that convergence of many warriors all toward the same point, was striking in the extreme, and as the glare of the torches shone on the countenances of the four men in the midst of whom was Francisco (the whole five, however, being held bound and powerless by the Ottoman soldiers), it was evident that the entire proceeding had inspired the guilty wretches with the most painful alarm. Demetrius instantly knew that the handsome and noble-looking young man in the midst of the group of captives and captors, must be Don Francisco of Riverola, and he also saw at a glance that one of the ruffians with him was Antonio. But he merely had leisure at the moment to address a word of reassurance and friendship to Nisida’s brother—for, lo! the secret of the entrance to the robbers’ stronghold was revealed—discovered! Yes—there, at the foot of the tree, and now rendered completely visible by the glare of the torch-light, was a small square aperture, from which the trap door had been raised to afford egress to the captured party.

“Secure that entrance!” cried Demetrius, hastily; “and hasten down those steps, some dozen of you, so as to guard it well!”—then, the instant this command was obeyed he turned toward Francisco, saying, “Lord of Riverola—am I right in thus addressing you?”

“Such is my name,” answered Francisco; “and if you, brave chief, will but release me and lend me a sword, I will prove to thee that I have no particular affection for these miscreants.”

Demetrius gave the necessary order—and in another moment the young Count of Riverola was not only free, but with a weapon in his hand. The Greek then made a rapid, but significant—fatally significant sign to his men; and—quick as thought,—the three robbers and their confederate Antonio were strangled by the bowstrings which the Ottomans whipped around their necks. A few stifled cries—and all was over! Thus perished the wretch Antonio—one of those treacherous, malignant, and avaricious Italians who bring dishonor on their noble nation,—a man who had sought to turn the vindictive feelings of the Count of Arestino to his own purposes, alike to fill his purse and to wreak his hateful spite on the Riverola family! Scarcely was the tragedy enacted, when Demetrius ordered the four bodies to be conveyed down the steps disclosed by the trap-door; “for,” said he, “we will endeavor so to direct our proceedings that not a trace of them shall be left upon ground; as the Florentines would not be well-pleased if they learnt that foreign soldiers have undertaken the duties which they themselves should perform.” Several of the Ottomans accordingly bore the dead bodies down the steps; and Demetrius, accompanied by Francisco, followed at the head of the greater portion of the troops, a sufficient number, however, remaining behind to constitute a guard at the entrance of the stronghold.

While they were yet descending the stone stairs, Demetrius seized the opportunity of that temporary lull in the excitement of the night’s adventures, to give Francisco hasty but welcome tidings of his sister; and the reader may suppose that the generous-hearted young count was overjoyed to learn that Nisida was not only alive, but also once more an inmate of the ancestral home. Demetrius said nothing relative to Flora; and Francisco, not dreaming for a moment that his deliverer even knew there was such a being in existence, asked no questions on that subject. His anxiety was not, however, any less to fly to the cottage; for it must be remembered that he was arrested first, on the 3d of July, and had yet to learn all the afflictions which had fallen upon Flora and her aunt—afflictions of the existence whereof he had been kept in utter ignorance by the banditti during his long captivity of nearly three months in their stronghold. But while we are thus somewhat digressing, the invaders are penetrating further into the stronghold. Headed by Demetrius and Francisco, and all carrying their drawn scimiters in their hands, the corps proceeded along a vast vaulted subterrane, paved with flag-stones, until a huge iron door, studded with nails, barred the way.

“Stay!” whispered Francisco, suddenly recollecting himself, “I think I can devise a means to induce the rogues to open this portal, or I am much mistaken.”

He accordingly seized a torch and hurried back to the foot of the stone-steps; in the immediate vicinity of which he searched narrowly for some object. At last he discovered the object of his investigation—namely a large bell hanging in a niche, and from which a strong wire ran up through the ground to the surface. This bell Francisco set ringing, and then hurried back to rejoin his deliverers. Scarcely was he again by the side of Demetrius, when he saw that his stratagem had fully succeeded; for the iron door swung heavily round on its hinges—and in another moment the cries of terror which the two robber-sentinels raised on the inner side, were hushed forever by the Turkish scimiters. Down another flight of steps the invaders then precipitated themselves, another door, at the bottom, having been opened in compliance with the same signal which had led to the unfolding of the first—and now the alarm was given by the sentinels guarding the second post—those sentinels flying madly on, having beholden the immolation of their comrades. But Demetrius and Francisco speedily overtook them just as they emerged from another long vaulted and paved cavern-passage, and were about to cross a plank which connected the two sides of a deep chasm in whose depths a rapid stream rushed gurgling on.

Into the turbid waters the two fugitive sentinels were cast: over the bridge poured the invaders, and into another caverned corridor, hollowed out of the solid rock, did they enter, the torch-bearers following immediately behind the Greek and the young count. It was evident that neither the cries of the surprised sentinels nor the tread of the invaders had alarmed the main corps of the banditti; for, on reaching a barrier formed by massive folding doors, and knocking thereat, the portals instantly began to move on their hinges—and in rushed the Ottoman soldiers, headed by their two gallant Christian leaders. The robbers were in the midst of a deep carouse in their magnificent cavern-hall, when their festivity was thus rudely interrupted.

“We are betrayed!” thundered Lomellino, the captain of the horde; “to arms! to arms!”

But the invaders allowed them no time to concentrate themselves in a serried phalanx, and tremendous carnage ensued. Surprised and taken unaware as they were, the banditti fought as if a spell were upon them, paralyzing their energies and warning them that their last hour was come. The terrible scimiters of the Turks hewed them down in all directions; some, who sought to fly, were literally cut to pieces. Lomellino fell beneath the sword of the gallant Count of Riverola; and within twenty minutes after the invaders first set foot in the banqueting hall, not a soul of the formidable horde was left alive!

Demetrius abandoned the plunder of the den to his troops; and when the portable part of the rich booty had been divided amongst them, they returned to their own grove, into which the entrance of the stronghold opened. When the subterrane was thus cleared of the living, and the dead alone remained in that place which had so long been their home, and was now their tomb, Demetrius ordered his forces to disperse and return to their quarters in Florence in the same prudent manner which had characterized their egress thence a few hours before. Francisco and Demetrius, being left alone together in the grove, proceeded by torchlight to close the trap-door, which they found to consist of a thick plate of iron covered with earth, so prepared, by glutinous substances no doubt, that it was hard as rock; and thus, when the trap was shut down, not even a close inspection would lead to a suspicion of its existence, so admirably did it fit into its setting and correspond with the soil all around.

It required, moreover, but a slight exercise of their imaginative powers to enable Demetrius and Francisco to conjecture that every time any of the banditti had come forth from their stronghold they were accustomed to strew a little fresh earth over the entire spot, and thus afford an additional precaution against the chance of detection on the part of any one who might chance to stray in that direction. We may also add that the trap-door was provided with a massive bolt which fastened it inside when closed, and that the handle of the bell-wire, which gave the signal to open the trap, was concealed in a small hollow in the old chestnut-tree. Having thus satisfied his curiosity by means of these discoveries, Demetrius accompanied Francisco to the city; and during their walk thither, he informed the young count that he was an envoy from the Ottoman Grand Vizier to the Florentine Government—that he had become acquainted with Nisida on board the ship which delivered her from her lonely residence on an island in the Mediterranean—and that as she had by some means or other learnt where Francisco was imprisoned, he had undertaken to deliver him. The young count renewed his warmest thanks to the chivalrous Greek for the kind interest he had manifested in his behalf; and they separated at the gate of the Riverola mansion, into which Francisco hurried to embrace his sister; while Demetrius repaired to his own abode.

The meeting between Nisida and her brother Francisco was affecting in the extreme; and for a brief space the softer feelings in the lady’s nature triumphed over those strong, turbulent, and concentrated passions which usually held such indomitable sway over her. For her attachment to him was profound and sincere; and the immense sacrifice she had made in what she conceived to be his welfare and interests had tended to strengthen this almost boundless love.

On his side, the young count was rejoiced to behold his sister, whose strange disappearance and long absence had filled his mind with the worst apprehensions. Yes, he was rejoiced to see her once more beneath the ancestral roof; and, with a fond brother’s pride, he surveyed her splendid countenance, which triumph and happiness now invested with an animation that rendered her surpassingly beautiful!

A few brief and rapidly-given explanations were exchanged between them, by means of the language of the fingers,—Francisco satisfying Nisida’s anxiety in respect to the success of her project, by which the total extermination of the banditti had been effected,—and she conveying to him as much of the outline of her adventures during the last seven months as she thought it prudent to impart. They then separated, it being now very late; and, moreover, Nisida had still some work in hand for that night. The moment Francisco was alone, he exclaimed aloud, “Oh! is it possible that this dear sister who loves me so much, is really the bitter enemy of Flora? But to-morrow—to-morrow I must have a long explanation with Nisida; and Heaven grant that she may not stand in the way of my happiness! Oh, Flora—dearest Flora, if you knew how deeply I have suffered on your account during my captivity in that accursed cavern! And what must you have thought of my disappearance—my absence! Alas! did the same vengeance which pursued me wreak its spite also on thee, fair girl?—did the miscreant, Antonio, who boastingly proclaimed himself to my face the author of my captivity, and who sullenly refused to give me any tidings of those whom I cared for, and of what was passing in the world without,—did he dare to molest thee? But suspense is intolerable, I cannot endure it even for a few short hours! No—I will speed me at once to the dwelling of my Flora, and thus assuage her grief and put an end to my own fears at the same time!”

Having thus resolved, Francisco repaired to his own apartment, enveloped himself in a cloak, secured weapons of defense about his person, and then quitted the mansion, unperceived by a living soul. Almost at the same time, but by another mode of egress—namely, the private staircase leading from her own apartments into the garden, and which has been so often mentioned in the course of this narrative—Donna Nisida stole likewise from the Riverola palace. She was habited in male attire; and beneath her doublet she wore the light but strong cuirass which she usually donned ere setting out on any nocturnal enterprise, and which she was now particularly cautious not to omit from the details of her toilet, inasmuch as the mysterious appearance of the muffled figure, which had alarmed her on the previous evening, induced her to adopt every precaution against secret and unknown enemies. Whither was the Lady Nisida now hurrying, through the dark streets of Florence?—what new object had she in contemplation?

Her way was bent toward an obscure neighborhood in the immediate vicinity of the cathedral; and in a short time she reached the house in which Dame Margaretha, Antonio’s mother, dwelt. She knocked gently at the door, which was shortly opened by the old woman, who imagined it was her son that sought admittance; for, though in the service of the Count of Arestino, Antonio was often kept abroad late by the various machinations in which he had been engaged, and it was by no means unusual for him to seek his mother’s dwelling at all hours.

Margaretha, who appeared in a loose wrapper hastily thrown on, held a lamp in her hand; and when its rays streamed not on the countenance of her son, but showed the form of a cavalier handsomely appareled, she started back in mingled astonishment and fear. A second glance, however, enabled her to recognize the Lady Nisida; and an exclamation of wonder escaped her lips. Nisida entered the house, closed the door behind her, and motioned Dame Margaretha to lead the way into the nearest apartment. The old woman obeyed tremblingly; for she feared that the lady’s visit boded no good; and this apprehension on her part was not only enhanced by her own knowledge of all Antonio’s treachery toward Count Francisco, but also by the imperious manner, determined looks, and strange disguise of her visitress. But Margaretha’s terror speedily gave way to indescribable astonishment when Nisida suddenly addressed her in a language which not for many, many years, had the old woman heard flow from that delicious mouth!

“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 gleaming 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:

“Francisco, draw near—as near as possible—and listen to what I have now to communicate, for it is in my power to clear up all doubt, all mystery relative to the honor of our sainted mother, and convince thee that no stigma, no disgrace attaches itself to thy birth!”

“Alas! my beloved sister,” exclaimed the young count, “you speak in a faint voice, you are very ill! In the name of the Holy Virgin! I conjure you to allow me to send for Dr. Duras!”

“No, Francisco,” said Nisida, her voice recovering somewhat of its power as she continued to address him: “I implore you to let me have my own way, to follow my own inclinations! Do not thwart me, Francisco; already I feel as if molten lead were pouring through my brain, and a tremendous weight lies upon my heart! Forbear, then, from irritating me, my well-beloved Francisco——”

“Oh! Nisida,” cried the young count, throwing his arms around his sister’s neck and embracing her fondly; “if you love me now, if you ever loved me, grant me one boon! By the memory of our sainted mother I implore you, by your affection for her I adjure you, Nisida——”

“Speak, speak, Francisco,” interrupted his sister, hastily: “I can almost divine the nature of the boon you crave—and—my God!” she added, tears starting from her eyes, as a painful thought flashed across her brain,—“perhaps I have been too harsh—too severe! At all events, it is not now—on my death-bed—that I can nurse resentment——”

“Your death-bed!” echoed Francisco, in a tone or acute anguish, while the sobs which convulsed the bosom of the young countess were heard alike by him and his sister.

“Yes, dearest brother, I am dying,” said Nisida, in a voice of profound and mournful conviction; “and therefore let me not delay those duties and those explanations which can alone unburden my heart of the weight that lies upon it! And first, Francisco, be thy boon granted—for I know that thou wouldst speak to me of her who is now thy bride. Come to my arms, then. Flora, embrace me as a sister, and forgive me if thou canst, for I have been a fierce and unrelenting enemy to thee!”

“Oh, let the past be forgotten, my friend, my sister!” exclaimed the weeping Flora, as she threw herself into Nisida’s outstretched arms.

And the young wife and the young woman embraced each other tenderly—for deep regrets and pungent remorse at last attuned the mind of Nisida to sweet and holy sympathy.

“And now,” said Nisida, “sit down by my side, and listen to the explanations which I have promised. Give me your hand. Flora, dear Flora, let me retain it in mine; for at the last hour, and when I am about to leave this fair and beauteous earth, I feel an ardent longing to love those who walk upon its face, and to be loved by them in return. But, alas, alas!” she added, somewhat bitterly, “reflections and yearnings of this nature come too late! O Flora! the picture of life is spread before you—while from me it is rapidly receding, and dissolving into the past. Like our own fair city of palaces and flowers, when seen from a distance beneath the glorious lights of the morning, may that glorious picture continue to appear to thee; and may’st thou never draw near enough to recognize the false splendors in which gorgeous hues may deck the things of this world; may’st thou never be brought so close to the sad realities of existence as to be forced to contemplate the breaking hearts that dwell in palaces, or to view in disgust the slime upon flowers.”

“Nisida,” said Francisco, bending over his sister, and speaking in a voice indicative of deep emotion, “the kind words you utter to my beloved Flora shall ever—ever remain engraven upon my heart.”

“And on mine also,” murmured the young countess, pressing Nisida’s hand with grateful ardor, while her eyes, radiant with very softness, threw a glance of passionate tenderness upon her generous-hearted and handsome husband.

“Listen to me,” resumed Nisida, after a short pause, during which she gave way to all the luxury of those sweet and holy reflections which the present scene engendered: and these were the happiest moments of the lady’s stormy life. “Listen to me,” she repeated; “and let me enter upon and make an end of my explanations as speedily as possible. And first, Francisco, relative to our sainted—our innocent—our deeply-wronged and much-injured mother. You have already learned that she was the daughter of the public executioner of Naples; and you have heard that ere she became our father’s wife she swore a solemn oath—she pledged herself in the most solemn manner that she would never even allude to her family—that she would not communicate to them the name of her husband nor the place of his abode, under any circumstances—in a word, that she would consider her father and brother as dead to her! And yet she had a tender heart; and after she became the Countess of Riverola she very often thought of the parent who had reared her tenderly and loved her affectionately; she thought also of her brother Eugenio, who had ever been so devoted to his sister. But she kept her promise faithfully for five years; until that fatal day of April, 1500, which our father has so emphatically mentioned in his narrative. It was in the garden belonging to the ducal palace that she suddenly encountered her brother Eugenio——”

“Her brother!” ejaculated Francisco, joyfully. “Oh! I knew, I felt certain that she was innocent.”

“Yes, she was indeed innocent,” repeated Nisida, “But let me pursue my explanations as succinctly as possible. It appeared that the old man—the executioner of Naples—was no more; and Eugenio, possessing himself of the hoardings of his deceased father, had fled from his native city to avoid the dread necessity of assuming the abhorrent office. Accident led the young adventurer to Florence in search of a more agreeable employment as a means whereby to earn his livelihood, and having formed the acquaintance of one of the duke’s valets, he obtained admittance to the gardens on that memorable evening when the grand entertainment was given. In spite of the strict injunctions he had received not to approach the places occupied by the distinguished guests, he drew near the arbor in which our mother had been conversing with other ladies, but where she was at that moment alone. The recognition was immediate, and they flew into each other’s arms. It would have been useless, as well as unnatural, for our mother to have refused to reveal her rank and name; her brilliant attire was sufficient to convince her brother that the former was high, and inquiry would speedily have made him acquainted with the latter. She accordingly drew him apart into a secluded walk and told him all; but she implored him to quit Florence without delay, and she gave him her purse and one of her rich bracelets, thereby placing ample resources at his disposal. Five years passed away, and during that period she heard no more of her brother Eugenio. But at the expiration of that interval she received a note stating that he was again in Florence—that necessity had alone brought him hither, and that he would be at a particular place at a certain hour to meet either herself or some confidential person whom she might instruct to see him. Our mother filled a bag with gold, and put into it some of her choicest jewels, and thus provided, she repaired in person to the place of appointment. It grieved her generous heart thus to be compelled to meet her brother secretly, as if he were a common robber or a midnight bravo; but for her husband’s peace, and in obedience to the spirit of the oath which imperious circumstances had alone led her in some degree to violate, she was forced to adopt that sad and humiliating alternative.”

“Alas! poor mother!” sobbed Francisco, deeply affected by this narrative.

“Again did five years elapse without bringing tidings to our mother of Eugenio,” continued Nisida, “and then he once more set foot in Florence. The world bad not used him well—Fortune had frowned upon him—and, though a young man of fine spirit and noble disposition, he failed in all his endeavors to carve out a successful career for himself. Our mother determined to accord him an interview in her own apartment. She longed to converse with him at her ease—to hear his tale from his own lips—to sympathize with and console him. Oh! who could blame her if in so doing she departed from the strict and literal meaning of that vow which had bound her to consider her relations as dead to her? But the fault—if fault it were—was so venial, that to justify it is to invest it with an importance which it would not have possessed save for the frightful results to which it led. You have already heard how foully he was waylaid, how ruthlessly he was murdered! Holy Virgin! my brain whirls when I reflect upon that hideous cruelty which made our mother the spectator of his dissection; for, even had he been a lover—even were she guilty—even if the suspicions of our father had all been well-founded——”

“Dwell not upon this frightful topic, my beloved Nisida!” exclaimed Francisco, perceiving that she was again becoming greatly excited, for her eyes dilated and glared wildly, her bosom heaved in awful convulsions, and she tossed her arms frantically about.

“No, I will not—I dare not pause to ponder thereon,” she said, falling back upon the pillow, and pressing her hands to that proud and haughty brow behind which the active, racking brain appeared to be on fire.

“Tranquilize yourself, dearest sister,” murmured Flora, bending over the couch and pressing her lips on Nisida’s burning cheek.

“I will, I will, Flora, whom I now love as much as I once hated!” exclaimed the dying lady. “But let me make an end of my explanations. You already know that our dear mother was gagged when she was compelled to witness the horrible deeds enacted in the subterranean charnel-house by the dim light of a sickly lamp; but even if she had not been, no word would have issued from her lips, as the manuscript justly observes. During her illness, however, she sought an interview with her husband for the purpose of proving to him her complete innocence, by revealing the fact that his victim was her own brother! But he refused all the entreaties proffered with that object, and our unfortunate mother was forced to contemplate the approach of death with the sad conviction that she should pass away without the satisfaction of establishing her guiltlessness in the eyes of our father. Then was it that she revealed everything to me—to me alone—to me, a young girl of only fifteen when those astounding facts were breathed into my ears. I listened with horror, and I began to hate my father, for I adored my mother. She implored me not to give way to any intemperate language or burst of passion which might induce the inmates of the mansion to suspect that I was the depositary of some terrible secret.

“‘For,’ said our mother, when on her death-bed, ‘if I have ventured to shock your young mind by so appalling a revelation, it is only that you may understand wherefore I am about to bind you by a solemn vow to love, protect, and watch over Francisco, as if he were your own child, rather than your brother. His father, alas! hates him. This I have observed ever since the birth of that dear boy, but it is only by means of the dread occurrence of the other night that I have been able to divine the origin of that dislike and unnatural loathing. Your father, Nisida,’ continued my mother, ‘believes that I have been unfaithful, and suspects that Francisco is the offspring of a guilty amour. With this terrible impression upon his mind, he may persecute my poor boy; he may disinherit him; he may even seek to rid him of life. Kneel, then, by my bedside, Nisida, and swear by all you deem sacred—by the love you bear for me—and by your hopes of salvation, that you will watch unweariedly and unceasingly over the welfare and the interests of Francisco—that you will make any sacrifice, incur any danger, or undergo any privation, to save him from the effects of his father’s hate—that you will exert all possible means to cause the title and fortune of his father to descend to him, and that you will in no case consent to supplant him in those respects—and lastly, that you will keep secret the dread history of my brother’s fate and your knowledge of your father’s crime.’ To all these conditions of the vow I solemnly and sacredly pledged myself, calling Heaven to witness the oath. But I said to our mother, ‘My father will not forever remain locked up in his own apartment; he will come forth sooner or later, and I must have an opportunity of speaking to him. May I not justify you, my dear mother, in his eyes? May I not assure him that Eugenio was your brother? He will then cease to hate Francisco, and may even love him as he loves me; and you may then have no fears on his account.”

“‘Alas! the plan which you suggest may not be put into execution,’ replied our dying mother; ‘for were your father to be aware that I had revealed the occurrences of that dread night to you, Nisida, he would feel that he must be ever looked upon as a murderer by his own child! Moreover, such appears to be the sad and benighted state of his mind, that he might peradventure deem the tale relative to Eugenio a mere excuse and vile subterfuge. No; I must perish disgraced in his eyes, unless he should accord ere I die, the interview which yourself and the good Dr. Duras have so vainly implored him to grant me.’

“Our dear mother then proceeded to give me other instructions, Francisco, relative to yourself; but these,” added Nisida, glancing toward Flora, “would now be painful to unfold. And yet,” she continued, hastily, as a second thought struck her, “it is impossible, my sweet Flora, that you can be weak-minded—for you have this day seen and heard enough to test your mental powers to the extreme possibility of their endurance. Moreover, I feel that my conduct toward you requires a complete justification; and that justification will be found in the last instructions which I received from the lips of my mother.”

“Dearest Nisida,” said the young countess, “no justification is needed—no apology is required in reference to that subject; for your kind words, your altered manner toward me now, your recognition of me as a sister, made so by union with your brother—oh! this would efface from my mind wrongs ten thousand times more terrible than any injury which I have sustained at your hands. But,” continued Flora, in a slow and gentle tone, “if you wish to explain the nature of these instructions which you received from the lips of your dying parent, let not my presence embarrass you.”

“Yes, I do wish to render my explanation as complete as possible, dearest Flora,” replied Nisida; “for if I have acted severely toward you, it was not to gratify any natural love of cruelty, nor any mean jealousy or spite; on the contrary, the motives were engendered by that imperious necessity which has swayed my conduct, modeled my disposition, and regulated my mind ever since that fatal day when I knelt beside my mother’s death-bed, and swore to obey her last words. For thus did she speak, Flora—‘Nisida, there is one more subject relative to which I must advise you, and in respect to which you must swear to obey me. My own life furnished a sad and terrible lesson of the impropriety of contracting an unequal marriage. All my woes—all my sorrows—all the dreadful events which have occurred—may be traced to the one great fact that the Count of Riverola espoused a person of whose family he was ashamed. Nisida,’ she continued, her voice becoming fainter and fainter, ‘watch you narrowly and closely over the welfare of Francisco in this respect. Let him not marry beneath him; let him not unite himself to one whose family contains a single member deserving obloquy or reproach. Above all, see that he marries not till he shall have reached an age when he will be capable of examining his own heart through the medium of experience and matured judgment. If you see him form a boyish attachment of which you have good and sufficient reason to disapprove, exert yourself to wean him from it: hesitate not to thwart him; be not moved by the sorrows he may manifest at the moment; you will be acting for his welfare; and the time will speedily come when he will rejoice that you have rescued him from the danger of contracting a hasty, rash, and ill-assorted marriage.’ These were the last instructions of our mother, Francisco; and I swore to obey them. Hence my sorrow, my fears, my anger when I became aware of the attachment subsisting between yourself, dear brother, and you, my sweet Flora: and that sorrow was enhanced—those fears were augmented—that danger was increased, Flora, when I learnt that your brother Alessandro had renounced the creed of the true God, and that your family thereby contained a member deserving of obloquy and reproach. But that sorrow, those fears, and that anger have now departed from my soul. I recognize the finger of Heaven—the will of the Almighty in the accomplishment of your union, despite of all my projects, all my intrigues to prevent it. I am satisfied, moreover, that there is in this alliance a fitness and a propriety which will insure your happiness: and may the spirit of my sainted mother look down from the empyrean palace where she dwells, and bless you both, even as I now implore the divine mercy to shed its beauties and diffuse its protecting influence around you.”

Nisida had raised herself up to a sitting posture as she uttered this invocation so sublimely interesting and solemnly sincere; and the youthful pair, simultaneously yielding to the same impulse, sank upon their knees to receive the blessing of one who had never bestowed a blessing on mortal being until then! She extended her hands above those two beautiful, bending heads: and her voice, as she adjured Heaven to protect them, was plaintively earnest and tremulously clear, and its musical sound seemed to touch the finest chord of sympathy, devotion, and love that vibrated in the hearts of that youthful noble and his virgin bride. When this solemn ceremony was accomplished, an immense weight appeared to have been removed from the soul of the Lady Nisida of Riverola; and her countenance wore a calm and sweet expression, which formed a happy contrast with the sovereign hauteur and grand contempt that were wont to mark it.

“I have now but little more to say in explanation of my past conduct,” she resumed, after a long pause. “You can readily divine wherefore I affected the loss of those most glorious faculties which God has given me. I became enthusiastic in my resolves to carry out the injunctions of my dear and much-loved mother; and while I lay upon a bed of sickness—a severe illness produced by anguish and horror at all I had heard from her lips, and by her death, so premature and sad—I pondered a thousand schemes, the object of which was to accomplish the great aims I had in view. I foresaw that I—a weak woman—then, indeed, a mere girl of fifteen—should have to constitute myself the protectress of a brother who was hated by his own father; and I feared lest that hatred should drive him to the adoption of some dreadful plot to rid himself of your presence, Francisco—perhaps even to deprive you of your life. I knew that I must watch all his movements and listen to all his conversations with those unprincipled wretches who are ever ready to do the bidding of the powerful and the wealthy. But how was all this to be accomplished?—how was I to become a watcher and a listener—a spy ever active, and an eavesdropper ever awake—without exciting suspicions which would lead to the frustration of my designs, and perhaps involve both myself and my brother in ruin? Then was it that an idea struck me like a flash of lightning; and like a flash of lightning was it terrible and appalling, when breaking on the dark chaos of my thoughts. At first I shrank from it—recoiled from it in horror and dismay;—but the more I considered it—the longer I looked that idea in the face—the more I contemplated it, the less formidable did it seem. I have already said that I was enthusiastic and devoted in my resolves to carry out the dying injunctions of my mother:—and thus by degrees I learnt to reflect upon the awful sacrifice which had suggested itself to my imagination as a species of holy and necessary self-martyrdom. I foresaw that if I affected the loss of hearing and speech, I should obtain all the advantages I sought and all the means I required to enable me to act as the protectress of my brother against the hatred of my father. I believed also that I should not only be considered as unfit to be made the heiress of the title and fortune of the Riverola family, but that our father, Francisco, would see the absolute necessity of treating you in all respects as his lawful and legitimate son, in spite of any suspicions which he might entertain relative to your birth. There were many other motives which influenced me, and which arose out of the injunctions of our mother,—motives which you can well understand, and which I need not detail. Thus it was that, subduing the grief which the idea of making so tremendous a sacrifice excited, on the one hand—and arming myself with the exultation of a martyr, on the other,—thus it was that I resolved to simulate the character of the deaf and dumb. It was, however, necessary to obtain the collusion of Dr. Duras; and this aim I carried after many hours of argument and persuasion. He was then ignorant—and still is ignorant—of the real motives which had prompted me to this self-martyrdom;—but I led him to believe that the gravest and most important family interests required that moral immolation of my own happiness;—and I vowed that unless he would consent to aid me, it was my firm resolve to shut myself up in a convent and take the veil. This threat, which I had not the least design of carrying into effect, induced him to yield a reluctant acquiescence with my project: for he loved me as if I had been his child. He was moreover consoled somewhat by the assurance which I gave him, and in which I myself felt implicit confidence at the time, that the necessity for the simulation of deafness and dumbness on my part would cease the moment my father should be no more. In a word, the kind Dr. Duras promised to act entirely in accordance with my wishes; and I accordingly became Nisida the deaf and dumb!”

“Merciful heavens! that immeasurable sacrifice was made for me!” cried Francisco, throwing himself into the arms of his sister and imprinting a thousand kisses on her cheeks.

“Yes—for your sake and in order to carry out the dying commands of our mother, the sainted Vitangela?” responded Nisida. “I shall not weary you with a description of the feelings and emotions with which I commenced that long career of duplicity; by the very success that attended the part which I had undertaken to perform you may estimate the magnitude and the extent of the exertions which it cost me thus to maintain myself a living—a constant—and yet undetected lie! Ten years passed away—ten years, marked by many incidents which made me rejoice, for your sake, Francisco, that I had accepted the self-martyrdom which circumstances had suggested to me. At length our father lay upon his death bed: and then—oh! then I rejoiced—yes, rejoiced, though he was dying; for I thought that the end of my career of duplicity was at hand. Judge, then, of my astonishment—my grief—my despair, when I heard the last injunctions which our father addressed to you, Francisco, on that bed of death. What could the mystery of the closet mean? Of that I then knew nothing. Wherefore was I to remain in complete ignorance of the instructions thus given to you? And what was signified by the words relative to the disposal of our father’s property? For you may remember that he spoke thus, addressing himself of course to you:—‘You will find that I have left the whole of my property to you. At the same time my will specifies certain conditions relative to your sister Nisida, for whom I have made due provision only in the case—which is, alas! almost in defiance of every hope!—of her recovery from that dreadful affliction which renders her so completely dependent upon your kindness.’ These ominous and mysterious words seemed to proclaim defeat and overthrow to all the hopes that I had formed relative to the certainty of your being left the sole and unconditional heir alike to title and estate. I therefore resolved to maintain the character of the deaf and dumb until I should have fathomed the secrets of the closet, and have become acquainted with the conditions of the will. Oh! well do I remember the glance which the generous-hearted Duras cast toward me, when, returning to the chamber, he inquired by means of that significant look whether the last words of our dying father were prognostic of hope for me—whether, indeed, the necessity of sustaining the dreadful duplicity would cease when he should be no more. And I remember, also, that the look and the sign, by which I conveyed a negative answer were expressive of the deep melancholy that filled his soul.”

“Alas! my dear self-sacrificed sister,” murmured Francisco, tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Yes—my disappointment was cruel indeed,” continued Nisida. “But the excitement of the scenes and incidents which followed rapidly the death of our father, restored my mind to its wonted tone of fortitude, vigor, and proud determination. That very night, Francisco, I took the key of the cabinet from your garments, while you slept—I sped to the chamber of death—I visited the depository of horrible mysteries—and for the first time I became aware that two skeletons were contained in that closet! And whose fleshless relics those skeletons were, the dreadful manuscript speedily revealed to me. Then was it also for the first time that I learnt how Margaretha was the detestable spy whose agency had led to such a frightful catastrophe in respect to Eugenio and Vitangela; then I became aware that our mother’s corpse slept not in the vault to which a coffin had been consigned:—in a word, the full measure of our sire’s atrocity—O God! that I should be compelled thus to speak—was revealed to me! But on Margaretha have I been avenged,” added Nisida, in a low tone, and with a convulsive shudder produced by the recollection of that terrible night when she immolated the miserable woman above the grave where lay a portion of the remains of her mother and of Eugenio.

“You have been avenged on Margaretha, sister,” ejaculated Francisco, surveying Nisida with apprehension.

“Yes,” she replied, her large black eyes flashing with a scintillation of the former fires: “that woman—I have slain her! But start not, Flora—look not reproachfully upon me, Francisco: ’twas a deed fully justified, a vengeance righteously exercised, a penalty well deserved! And now let me hasten to bring my long and tedious explanations to a conclusion—for they have occupied a longer space than I had at first anticipated, and I am weak and faint. Little, however, remains to be told. The nature of our father’s will compelled me to persist in my self-martyrdom: for I had sworn to my dying mother not to accept any conditions or advantages which should have the effect of disinheriting you, Francisco.”

“Oh! what a debt of gratitude do I owe thee, my beloved sister!” exclaimed the young count, deeply affected by the generous sacrifices made by Nisida on his behalf.

“And think you I have experienced no reward?” asked the lady in a sweet tone, and with a placid smile: “do you imagine that the consciousness of having devoted myself to the fulfillment of my adored mother’s wishes has been no recompense? Yes—I have had my consolations and my hours of happiness, as well as my sufferings and periods of profound affliction. But I feel a soft and heavenly repose stealing over me—’tis a sweet sleep, and yet it is not the slumber of death! No, no; ’tis a delicious trance into which I am falling—’tis as if a celestial vision——”

She said no more. Her eyes closed, she fell back and slept soundly.

“Merciful Heavens! my sister is no more!” exclaimed Francisco, in terror and despair.

“Fear not, my beloved husband,” said Flora; “Nisida sleeps, and ’tis a healthy slumber. The pulsations of her heart are regular; her breath comes freely. Joy, joy, Francisco, she will recover!”

“The Holy Virgin grant that your hope may be fulfilled!” returned the young count. “But let us not disturb her. We will sit down by the bedside, Flora, and watch till she shall awake.”

But scarcely had he uttered these words when the door of the chamber opened, and an old man of venerable appearance, and with a long beard as white as snow, advanced toward the newly married pair.

Francisco and Flora beheld him with feelings of reverence and awe, for something appeared to tell them that he was a mortal of no common order.

“My dear children,” he said, addressing them in a paternal manner, and his voice firm, but mild, “ye need not watch here for the present. Retire, and seek not this chamber again until the morning of to-morrow. Fear nothing, excellent young man, for thou hast borne arms in the cause of the cross. Fear nothing, amiable young lady, for thou art attended by guardian angels.”

And as the venerable man thus addressed them severally, he extended his hands to bless them; and they received that blessing with holy meekness, and yet with a joyous feeling which appeared to be of glorious augury for their future happiness. Then, obedient to the command of the stranger, they slowly quitted the apartment—urged to yield to his will by a secret influence which they could not resist, but which nevertheless animated them with a pious confidence in the integrity of his purpose. The door closed behind them, and Christian Rosencrux remained in the room with the dead Wagner and the dying Nisida.