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past times, times of innocent enjoyment, of beneficent | diately after the outbreak at Milan, but was now prosperity, and think of the hopes she had cherished, gone they knew not whither, after leaving in the the dear ones from whom she was now torn. Some- hands of the miller's wife, his foster-mother, a times she would even sing the songs that she had ring and some papers, the only treasure he posheard, or sung herself, in the pleasant days of youth, sessed. Ramengo passes the night in the mill. when she sat within at her embroidery, or, in spring, The story of Rosalia's rescue and that of her child wandered with her companions to gather bunches of is told, and at length the ring and the papers are primroses or sprigs of myrtle; or, in summer, glided in a little skiff along the flowery banks of the Vergante produced, the suspicious letters are read, Ramengo with a gentle breeze, drinking in the beauties of cre- discovers his wife's innocence, and finds that he is ation, and offering to the Creator the homage of a pure virtually her murderer. One consolation only reand joyful heart. Sometimes they were songs of love, mains. Alpinolo is his son, not the son of Pusbut more frequently mournful airs, whose pensive terla, and all his desire now is to find him out, harmony accorded better with the tone of her feelings. recognize, and embrace him. In the course of his One romance in particular went above all others di- wanderings he reaches Pisa on the anniversary of rectly to her heart. It was one composed in other the Battle of the Bridge, celebrated in commemoratimes by Buonvicino, and which he had often accom- tion of a battle fought between its inhabitants and panied on the lute, while she sang the words to notes the Saracens, three hundred years before, when the also of his own composing. bridge was attacked by the latter, and defended with complete success by the former. Ramengo mingles with the crowd, and encounters not a few of the fugitives from Milan, and with his usual cunning draws from them the important fact that Pusterla has taken refuge at the court of Avignon. He finds also that Alpinolo is at Pisa, and, full of the satisfaction derived from this twofold information, he goes, in high spirits, to witness the approaching contest.

There is something very touching in this return, at such a time, to the memory of her early affection, but we feel as if it were not quite in character either with the person or the situation. The romance is given, and it is not only full of plaintive tenderness, but of pure and simple feeling; but surrounded as Margherita then was with the images of misery and death, she should, we think, have remembered her former lover only as the minister of God. One would have rather heard her singing the hymns and offices of the church, which, at such a time, would be much more fitted to give her comfort.

One day, about nightfall, she was interrupted in this romance by an unusual trampling of horses in the court-yard, accompanied by loud bursts of laugter, mingled with insult and abuse, among which might be distinguished sounds of a more gentle lamentation than is usually heard from prisoners, and quite out of harmony with the rough voices which it was now her wont to hear. How is the heart of the miserable ever open to apprehension! With the anxiety of a dove, who has seen the cuckoo fix its eyes upon the nest of her young ones, Margherita leaped up to her breathing hole, clung with her delicate hands to the heavy iron bars, threw a rapid glance on the mingled crowd before her, and saw a little boy, whose light hair fell in disorder over his eyes, shrieking and struggling in the arms of the ruffians, and crying out, "Father! father!" to one who, loaded with chains, and with downcast countenance, slowly and sadly followed.

Margherita uttered a shriek as if she had been suddenly struck to the heart. Her eyes, her ears, even at that distance, and in spite of the dubious and uncertain light, had forced her to recognize her own Franciscolo, her own Venturino.

Poor thing! if it were only possible that she could be deceived!

The story now returns to the events which had taken place since Margherita's imprisonment, and the flight of Franciscolo and Venturino. Ramengo, in the depth of his malignant wickedness, offers to go himself in search of the chief conspirator and his accomplices, and the offer is accepted. In order to give color to his departure, and throw the fugitives off their guard, Luchino affects to number him among the proscribed. He sets out on his secret expedition, and, determining to penetrate into the heart of Italy, arrives one stormy evening at the mouth of the Adda. Here he takes shelter in the mill, to which Rosalia and Alpinolo had been carried eighteen years before. Here, as he is looking to his horse, he sees another charger in the stable, which he finds to be Alpinolo's. He learns that he had made his appearance at the mill imme

In the thickest of the encounter, Alpinolo suddenly makes his appearance among the combatants, and bears off the principal honors of the day. The father and son are confronted in the moment of

victory. But in vain Ramengo tries to contrive a private interview; in vain does he by signs entreat his son to be silent; in vain does he beckon him to come and speak with him. "Ramengo!" he shouts, with a roar like that of a wounded bull, "Vile informer! infamous spy! have I then caught thee? Make way! Only let me get at him! Öne blow shall pay for all." It is not without great difficulty that Ramengo escapes the danger of being killed by his own son. All this only increases his hatred for Pusterla. "Because he excited my suspicions by showing attention to my wife, I became her murderer. A son, however, at least, remained to me-a son who might have been my joy and pride, and made me the envy of those who now perhaps despise me. But again this infamous scoundrel has come between us; and by his mad fancies father and son are divided, made enemies to one another. But no; I will never cease till I am reconciled to my son; I will take this fellow who thus bewitches him out of the way. Then we shall draw near one another; I shall appear again, and with him, in society, at Milan, at court. But thou, cursed wretch, who art the cause of his detaching himself from me, now that I know thy hiding-place, may I never be a man again, if I do not make thee pay the penalty with thy blood!" It was at this time that he wrote the letter to Luchino, to which on the day of the prince's interview with Margherita the secretary had directed his attention, and in which Ramengo had demanded impunity for his son as a reward for his own successful efforts to find Pusterla. A few days after, he was on his voyage to Avignon, while Alpinolo was seeking him far and near; but the father and son never met again, till they met in a dreadful place, and at a dreadful time.

Franciscolo, meanwhile, after having encountered many vicissitudes, and eaten the bitter bread of exile, finds himself at Avignon under the protection of his uncle, a churchman, who holds a distinguished place in the Papal court. Here he

passes his time rather too gayly for a man under | fresh, sweet waters of the Sorga have become my Hiphis painful circumstances. He never, indeed, for-pocrene. Here, for the present, I write my sighs in gets Margherita in her imprisonment, nor fails to vulgar rhymes; but two years ago I began my Africa, treat Venturino with paternal kindness, but he a poem which will make me, in time to come, as imseems to enjoy himself more than might naturally mortal as Virgil and Statius. My friends find me out have been expected in the brilliant society of the here, the great seek me, and though I do not give place. Some of the Papal courtiers are graphically I see how truly one of them predicted, when he said credit to the follies of the alchemist and the astrologer, described. Petrarch, for whose moral qualities of me as a child, that I should enjoy the friendship of we confess that we have no great respect, seems to the greatest and most illustrious men of the age. And you are you anything of a student?''

us done to the life:

Among these (the men of literary eminence) Francesco Petrarca, whose fame, although he was scarcely thirty-six years old, had already extended throughout all Europe, held the most distinguished rank. The darling of popes and prelates, he took up his abode at Valcluse, a few miles distant from Avignon, fattening upon benefices while he was writing about philosophy; imitating the verses of the Provençals in Italian sonnets and canzoni, destined to belie the assertion that he who imitates others will never be imitated himself; giving advice to potentates who would never take it, and making love in rhyme, from fourteen years of age upwards, to a lady of thirty-two, who had been married at fifteen, and while the poet went on singing her virgin chastity, had brought her husband a troop of children. The platonizing poet aspired to Laura's love, Laura to everlasting fame, pretending just as much reserve as was necessary to prevent the singer from escaping her net. She succeeded in her intentions; whether or not he did in his, is still disputed among physiologists and savans.

Petrarca was himself an exile; had written a book on The Remedies of either Fortune; was a philosopher; by the common voice a patriot, and a great lover of Italy. Franciscolo, who had known him both at Padua and Milan, hoped to derive both counsel and consolation from his advice; and therefore went to visit him at Valcluse, accompanied by Venturino, persuaded that the sight of so great a man, and above all his conversation, must inspire a child with gener

ous sentiments.

In the centre of a stupendous mountain, a deep and shady grotto expands itself, from which the waters of the Sorga are discharged, and shut in by inaccessible rocks, it forms the valley which bears a name so analogous to its nature. Here, in a delicious villa, Franciscolo found Petrarca, surrounded by antiquities, which he preserved with jealous care, and large bookcases of nut-wood, securely locked, within which were guarded the rich treasures of his learned volumes. Scarce had the poet recognized his visitor before he

read to him the sonnet

Piangete, o donne, et con voi pianga amore, which he had just composed on the death of Cino da Pistoja, who had been his master in poetry.

When he had finished, and had asked Pusterla if it was not a real chef-d'œuvre, without waiting for another word, except praise and congratulation, "Pray," he said, "why have you left Italy, and the honored shores? I, too, have run through the barbarous countries; I have visited the Gallias as far as the Rhine and Germany; not that I had any business there, but only for the love of learning, like that great man who saw many cities, and observed many customs and manners. I have coasted along the shores of Spain, I have navigated the ocean, I have even touched at England; but all that I have seen has only made me love and admire Italy still more. And now for her I would willingly leave this western Babylon, than which the sun has never seen anything more void of form and beauty. I would leave the fierce Rhone, which resembles the foaming Cocytus of the Tartarean Acheron, if love did not keep me here, if I had not here all that is dear to me. Here, on the 6th of April, 1327, I first became acquainted with her who was destined to rob me of peace; and the clear,

simple "yes," he went on :And then, almost before Franciscolo could slip in a

"Whatever you do, stick to the classics. Do not let these modern philosophers take you in. Better study Cicero than Aristotle or Averroe, from whom they suck in their impiety. They wanted to make me an atheist, and because I stick to the old credo, they say that I am a good kind of man enough, but a mere ignoramus.'

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self, and it was of himself only that he would talk, so In short, Petrarca would let nobody speak but himthat Venturino's account to his uncle was, that the canon was a famous preacher, while Franciscolo, leaving all his admiration behind him, carried away the idea that these great men are no great help or comfort to any one who is in affliction; and he was

not far wrong.

After his visit to Valombrosa, however, Pusterla's desire to revisit Italy, and his anxiety about Margherita, Buonvicino and his other friends, is heightened; and the coronation of Petrarca at Rome, which takes place soon after, adds fuel to the flame :

His intimacy with the poet had increased by seeing him in company with the cardinals, to whom Petrarca was profuse in his adulation, and he had begged him to write from Italy. He did so, and, after having painted in glowing colors the beauties which he was now beholding again, the beauties of the country che Apennin parte, and the festivity and reverence with which he was everywhere received, he besought him to fly from his present retreat: "Go anywhere, even among the wild Indians, rather than remain in that Babylon, live in that hell. Avignon is the sink of all abominations; its houses, its palaces, its churches, its cathedrals, even the very air and soil, all are pregnant with lies; the most sacred truths are treated there as absurd and childish fables; it would be a land of malediction, if it had not given birth to Laura." All this, however, was only an exercise in composition, for Petrarca was in reality satisfied enough with this hell, and was about to return to it again in a short time; but the words sounded sadly to Pusterla, and struck painfully upon his ulcerated heart.

A change of policy at the Papal court increases Franciscolo's disinclination to remain at Avignon; and, at this juncture, Ramengo makes his appearance, and contrives by an ingenious mixture of truth and falsehood, to remove all suspicion from the mind of his victim, and gain his entire confidence. At length, by means of a forged invitation to Verona, the governor of which was one of his intimate friends, Pusterla is thrown off his guard and induced to accompany Ramengo in a vessel professedly bound to that place.

The vessel which had borne Pusterla from France, had from the first encountered various vicissitudes. Torrents of rain, whirlwinds and furious tempests, more than are wont to take place in those seas, seemed as if they would drive the unhappy wanderers from the much desired but fatal shore. Venturino, when he had a little recovered from the stupefied nausea occasioned by the heaving of the vessel, said

"Oh, father, why did we leave that country?

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"Poor mamma!" replied Franciscolo, sighing, as he smoothed the light and curling locks of his child; "Yes, we shall see her, if it please God. And now let us pray for her."

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Pray! oh, a day never passes without my doing that; and I never forget her for a moment. This very night I was dreaming about her. I fancied we were at Montebello, in our country house; and yet it was in the city; she and I were in the parlor, and you came in on horseback with an army of soldiers... I don't quite recollect how it was; but I know that I never saw her look more beautiful, and that I never loved her better. Oh, if I were only grown up! if my arm was as strong as yours or Alpinolo's, I would soon manage to set her at liberty."

For some time, his conductor wears the mask of friendship, but when they reach the port of Pisa, contrary to the faith of nations, the vessel is boarded by a privateer in the pay of Luchino, and Pusterla and his son are seized.

When Alpinolo, on the night of Margherita's imprisonment, had consigned her little boy to the care of Fra Buonvicino, he sought, as we have seen, the humble protectors of his infancy, by whom he was received with overflowing joy. With them he left his horse, his money, and even the ring, which he held dearer than all, as the only memorial of his parents, and which he had sworn never to part with except in a case of the utmost emergency. That time he fancied was now come, for he had determined upon suicide. Accordingly, he has scarcely left his foster-parents before he throws himself into the river, but soon, under the influence of better and more healthful feelings, determines to endure life, and swims to shore. He then proceeds to Pisa, where he makes acquaintance with the fugitives and malcontents who had taken refuge there. By them he is induced, in spite of his native generosity, to enter into an engagement to assassinate Luchino, and for this purpose enlists as a common soldier into the guard commanded by Sfolcada Melik, after having previously paid a second visit to the mill, and procured his mother's ring, but not her letters, which Ramengo in his fury had destroyed. He shrinks, however, from the projected assassination. Luchino is often in his power, but he feels that he cannot murder a defenceless man. At length he learns that Pusterla and his son are taken, and the execution of the whole family determined, and makes up his mind to try and effect their escape. He contrives without much difficulty to be appointed one of the sentinels who guard the prison, and, by means of a well-filled purse and the memorable ring, manages to win over Margherita's pitiless jailer. He has then an interview with Fra Buonvicino, described with much beauty, in which he details his plan, and asks the monk's assistance. Buonvicino undertakes to have horses ready for flight, and the memorable evening comes.

A look black as thunder from Alpinolo, and a squeeze of the hand, which might have been mistaken for a pair of pincers, made the jailer aware that it was no longer time to draw back, or even stand in sus

pense. That the business, therefore, might run no risk of miscarrying, he took off his shoes, or rather socks, which at that time did instead, fell upon his knees, and repeated a prayer, which nothing but terror could draw from his lips, and with which he only wanted to make Heaven his accomplice. Then, stealing along, he extinguished the lamp, which gave a feeble light to the passage, took the keys from his girdle, and crept close by the wall, feeling his way before him, to the cell of Francesco Pusterla.

Accustomed as he always was to stride noisily along, whistling and singing songs with a deafening voice, without the least consideration for the prisoners, whose slumbers he often broke, and whose dreams he disturbed, he now moved with all the jealous and fearful anxiety of a mother, who is hovering round the cradle of her sick infant. The least rustle of his clothes made his blood curdle; his steps, barefooted as he was, seemed to sound to him more heavily than those of a warrior armed from head to foot; he tried even to hold his breath; the keys, for all he could do, would creak as they turned in the lock, and the doorpost rattle; and his hair stood upright upon his head with less fear but more anxiety. Alpinolo kept constantly at his elbow, in the breathless suspense the money chest of an usurer. At length the door was of a robber, whose accomplice is busy in ransacking unlocked, the bolt drawn, and Alpinolo rushed hastily down two or three rough steps, crying in a low voice, Francesco! Signor Francesco!""

On hearing his prison-door opened at such an unusual hour, and in such an unusual manner, the imagination of Pusterla had conjured up all those fears of violence and assassination which are habitual to the incarcerated. He fell on his knees, prayed to God to pardon his sins, and recommended his soul to Him as if he were on the point of appearing before His presence; awakened his little Venturino, kissed him, set him in the furthest corner of the prison, saying, him, like a trench, the little furniture he had, a stool "Be still," covered him with a cloak, placed before and a pitcher, from an instinct of paternal tenderness, which has recourse to every means of defence, weak and ineffective as reason warns us they must be. Thus the hen, when she hears the sound of the kite, as he expands his ample wings over her head, cries out to her chickens, and covers them under her feathers, though she cannot guard them a moment from his clutches.

In the midst of these painful and ineffectual efforts he hears some one call him by name; he starts; it is a voice he knows, but has not heard for a long time. "Who is there?" he cried; "a murderer or a friend?"

told his name; "I come to set you free; lose no time; "Silence!" replied Alpinolo, "a friend," and he let us be off."

"And Margherita?" was Franciscolo's only reply. "She will come too."

"God help us !" and he squeezed the young man's hand as he spoke, so as to express all the passionate gratitude of one, who, forsaken and betrayed by all besides, and brought even to death's door, has at last found a friend. The young man felt it, felt all its worth, felt that it overpaid him for what he had done. Franciscolo then took the child in his arms, repeating to him from time to time, "Be still."

The jailer, to whom this short delay had seemed an eternity, could not see them, but he heard them reascend the steps, and whispered in their ear, "Tread softly."

miserable woman had not forgotten (what does a pris Thus they reached Margherita's apartment. The oner forget?) that this was the seventh birthday of her Venturino. How many thoughts and feelings did such a recollection bring to his unfortunate mother! The pains of childbirth, softened by the comfort of seeing, touching, kissing, a tender creature, a living

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being, a part of herself, the pledge of a pure and happy love a new bond of tender union between the wife and the husband; the never-ceasing delight of looking at it, fondling it, hushing it to sleep; sustaining with her own milk the life she gave; these are the pleasures which Heaven has vouchsafed to mothers as a recompense for the pains and labors of their sacred state. But when Margherita recurred to that day, her mind dwelt on a commodious apartment, a comfortable bed, numerous attendants, all lavishing eagerly upon her tender cares, kind sympathy, eager congratulation, and, to crown all, a proud and happy husband, and all the joys which dance around the cradle of a new-born child. But now, what a change! Squalor, darkness, insult, apprehension, terror; and, worse than all this, separation from her husband, with the knowledge that he was suffering torments equal to her own, if not still more terrible. And that child, that dear and innocent creature, once her comfort and delight, condemned in the morning of life, without crime, without even the possibility of crime, to suffer the punishment of the guilty. This day, which was wont to be a domestic festival, a day of mutual congratulation, when they were together, could now only embitter her anguish, now that, so near to him, to them, she could not give them one embrace-could not even see them. Oh! if she could but see them, if it were only from a distance! It seemed as if that small boon would make her heart overflow with sweet delight, and she ventured to ask it of her tender and compassionate Saviour. Then kneeling down again, she prayed that the tender plant, at least, might be spared-spared to grow up, and preserve a compassionate remembrance of a father and mother, to what fate reserved!

Then, when prayer had restored her to some degree of calmness, she exclaimed, "Lord! Thy will be done!"

At length her eyes were closed in sleep, which, in spite of their tormentors, comes to the relief of those who suffer. Then her guardian angel unfolded to that innocent soul peaceful dreams, tranquil visions of the past, cheering hopes for the future. The images which had occupied her mind during the day woke up again in sleep. She imagined herself at liberty, and wandering freely with her friends on the banks of Lago Maggiore. It was the most beautiful spring she had ever seen; nothing was to be seen but flowers, nothing heard but sportive laughter, and songs of mysterious gladness, such as nature pours forth when she would invite her children to the banquet of benevolence and joy, while the imagination added those ideal charms which fling their coloring over a long unsatisfied desire. She seemed to be playing there with the friends of her youth, yet to be already a mother, and to be showing them her child, whom she held to her breast; then, gently lifting up the cloth which covered him, she seemed to point out to them the face fair as alabaster, and the eyes blue as the heaven from whence he came.

his; they were his kisses; the burning tears which rained down the cheeks of both were real. What a moment! quaff it, forlorn one! quaff it in all its blissful intoxication, bought with so much suffering; enjoy the flash flung athwart the night of thy anguish the flash! it is no more.

"Hush!" said Francesco to her, "Hush! and follow me."

Margherita did not answer a word, but took the child from his arms, pressed him to her bosom, covered him with kisses, bathed him with her tears. you, who are mothers, you alone will be able to comprehend that moment! The little boy did not know who it was that kissed him so affectionately, and held him so closely to her heart; but by the reciprocal feeling which love produces, he also lavished on his side kisses and caresses. Margherita, still pressing him closely to her bosom, partly from affection, and partly to keep him quiet, followed the footsteps of her husband, who, taking her by the arm, kept close to Alpinolo, as the young man felt before him with the hand that held the halbert, and with the other kept fast hold of the jailer. This last led the way with slow and lengthy strides, his body crumpled up so as to occupy as little space as possible, resting entirely upon his right foot, stretching out his hands like feelers, and stopping every now and then to listen.

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And now the first corridor is passed, and the door within which the guard is asleep; passed a dark entry which leads to the jailer's kitchen, and, when he has shut the door behind him, he breathes freely, as if he had accomplished the most difficult part of the undertaking. Another door leads into a courtyard; they open it; a small door is seen in front; five steps are to be ascended; open that door, leap a narrow ditch, and they are safe. They listen, with outstretched ears, upon the threshold. All is still. But a sentinel, fast asleep, was lying at full length upon a low wall at the side, his face resting upon his arms. The jailer pointed him out anxiously to Alpinolo, but this last, pushing him forward, made signs that it was nothing-that the man was fast asleep and would not wake, and that there was no cause to fear. They step out, ascend three steps, and Margherita, who came last with Venturino, had put her foot upon the threshold. At this moment the moon cleft asunder the thick veil of clouds, a limpid ray disclosed the fugitives to each other, and poor Margherita was distinctly visible, pale, wasted, in a torn and threadbare dress, her hair flowing over her half-naked shoulders, like a lady just risen from her bed, who is still beautiful in spite of her negligent wretchedness.

Francesco and Alpinolo turned upon her a look full of love, veneration and pity; the child also raised his cherub face, and, putting back with his little hand the hair which impeded his sight, looked with intense curiosity upon the kind lady who was carrying him, saw her, knew her, and with the joy, poor child! of And lo a faint voice strikes her ear from a dis-one who sees a dear friend alive and well, whom he tance. Margherita Margherita !" "It is my husband," she said. "How long it is since I heard that voice! He must be out of prison, and wants to see his son. I am coming. Farewell, my companions, enjoy yourselves till I return."

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And in fact, though still dreaming, she rises from her pallet and, with the stifled voice of a somnambulist, answers, "I am coming," and, moving forward in reality, feels herself suddenly embraced. At that touch, at that voice, which sounded in her ear, as that of his divine Friend, which recalled him from the realms of death, must have sounded in the ear of Lazarus, after he had lain four days in the tomb, she, too, awakes, and finds herself in the arms of her Francesco; in his arms, and the child between them! She thought herself dreaming still, moved forward, rubbed her eyes-it was his hand which pressed her face to

had long wept over as dead, threw his arms about her neck, and exclaimed with a piercing cry, "Mamma! mamma !"

That cry froze them all with terror. His mother put her hand before his mouth, but it was too late. The sentinel lifted up his head in alarm, saw them, sprang upon his feet, "Help, they are making their escape, to arms!" And he did not cease shouting till, in less than I can tell it, Alpinolo had thrown himself upon him, and severed his head from his shoulders; then, with the bloody sabre still in his hands, made signs to his terrified companions to escape, while he stood at the door to prevent all egress, till they had gained sufficient time to fly. All, however, was vain. The cry, "To arms!" had reached the rest of the guard, and they came pouring in from all quarters with lances and torches, shouts

and menaces. With the desperate courage of a tigress defending her young, Alpinolo laid about him with all his might at first with his sword, then with his lance, and, finally, with all that remained of it, the trunk, and struck down all that he could reach. But Sfolcada Melik, coming behind, struck him such a stunning blow upon the helmet with his mace, that it sent him rolling at the feet of Margherita, dabbled as he was in his own blood and that of others. Alpinolo kissed them with a convulsive lip, then, raising his swimming eyes to her face, exclaimed, "Only forgive me!"

"Death!" subjoined the other, with the courteous indifference learnt in good society. Buonvicino had scarcely strength enough to ask, All?”

"All," he replied; "and the prince, as a signal proof of his esteem, grants permission to your reverence to assist them in their last moments.'

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Was it real pity? Was it a refined insult of Luchino's? The monk did not stop to inquire; but he penetrated in an instant all the bitterness of this new position-one of those which break the heart, or turn it to stone. He raised his eyes to heaven and exclaimed, "Let the sacrifice be completed!" Then, turning to the messenger, "Thank the prince in my name for this. I take it from him as a favor, and from Heaven as my last trial-and the most tremendous."

Buonvicino visits Margherita.

We omit the first interview, together with a minute and somewhat labored analysis of Margherita's thoughts and feelings in the immediate prospect of death, after the manner of Le dernier jour d'un condamné, and proceed to the second.

Buonvicino is soon made acquainted with the failure of their attempt to escape. He learns that the jailer is hanged, and that Pusterla and his family are to be tried forthwith by the interested and iniquitous judges who had condemned the former prisoners. Of Alpinolo he can hear nothing, but concludes that he was killed in the combat which took place in the prison. Only one thing now remains to be tried-an appeal to Luchino himself on behalf of the innocent. It is a forlorn hope, but the monk determines to make the effort; and his high character, and the general At midday the monk reäppeared in the presence of respect which it commands, lay open to him at all the sufferer. The paleness of her countenance had times even the guarded entrance to the palace. increased; and it was evident that no interval of His persuasion fails, however; the trial follows. repose had been granted to her anxious thoughts. All the legal technicalities are observed, but the She had not been suffering for herself alone; she had issue is inevitable. It is too much the interest of been thinking of other beings, so near and dear to her, the presiding judge that the prisoners should be whom she yet could not see, and should never see found guilty, for the sentence to be doubtful. A again, or see them on the scaffold. On the countepalace at Milan, and the rich territory of Mon-nance of Buonvicino also, in addition to the traces of tebello in the country, held pro tempore by Lucio, long habitual suffering, others still more deep and the chief-justice, are to be in his perpetuity on the searching were now visible. When he had saluted his conviction of the Pusterla family. They are of penitent, he said in a languid voice, very unlike that course condemned, and the people, whom the gen-to inform you that, according to custom, you are at of a man announcing a boon: " Lady! I am deputed eral counsel, assembled according to the prescriptive right, is supposed to represent, confirm the liberty to ask for any indulgence you please." The dim and sunken eye of Margherita shone with sentence. Buonvicino spends the time of the trial hope; and over her bloodless countenance a blush in prayer, kneeling by the same tomb where he was diffused, as beautiful as that which fancy paints knelt on the memorable day when God first touched to the exiled mountaineer, when he thinks of a sunset his heart, and called him to repentance and newness in spring on the snowy summits of the country for of life. The scene which follows reminds us in its which he has so long sighed; without a moment's graceful heartlessness of Shakspeare's Ostrick. hesitation she answered, "Let me see my husband." The monk had foreseen this; and, with difficulty restraining his tears, answered, "God alone can now gratify this desire."

The monk had remained absorbed in meditation and prayer some hours when he felt a gentle tap on the shoulder. He looked up like one roused from deep thought, and saw a young man standing by his side, in a short and elegant dress of blue and white, fitting so closely to his form as to bring out in perfect relief the compact structure of his limbs, upon which the doublet and hose sat without a wrinkle giving full effect to their robust agility. Gracefully resting his left hand upon his side, holding a cap of white velvet, from which drooped a peacock's feather, and leaning with his right upon an elegant rod of ebony, tipped with burnished silver, he kept at a respectful distance, in the attitude of obsequious politeness, which is learnt at court. A large serpent, worked in silver upon his doublet, gave no room for Buonvicino to doubt that he was one of the chamberlains of the visconti, and, trembling with hope and fear, his eye expressing all the anxiety he felt, he rose to meet him, and said, "What are Signor Luchino's commands?" To which the other answered with a bow, "His excellency presents through me his respects to your reverence; he has sent a large donation for masses to the convent, and recommends himself particularly to your prayers. He informs you, moreover, that the prisoners who were condemned this morning. . . "They have been condemned, then?" interrupted Buonvicino, and he grew first pale, then red, and, casting down his eyes, asked in a deep voice, "And to what punishment?"

"Is he then dead?" she asked, drawing back in terror, and holding out her rigid hands.

The silence of the monk and a mournful inclination of the head gave terrible confirmation of the truth. "And my son?" she resumed with increasing anguish.

"He waits for you in Paradise."

She stood motionless as if struck by lightning; she wept not, she spoke not; such griefs have neither tears nor words; but, at length, recovering herself again, she exclaimed, "All the ties are now broken which bound me to the earth;" then raising her eyes in the attitude of a sublime sacrifice, she added, "Let us prepare to follow them."

She sank on her knees before her humble seat, and, alternately with the monk, who knelt by her side, in a voice broken by sobs repeated the prayers for the dead; she listened with mournful resignation to the last affectionate words and self-accusing messenger sent by her Francesco; and heard with what courage, only an hour before, he had ascended the scaffold, at peace with himself and with all mankind, leading his little boy by the hand, whom he had hoped to guide in the path of splendor and renown, instead of leading him up the steps of the infamous ladder.

Margherita's thoughts, therefore, had no longer any resting-place upon earth. Heaven, besides being the only secure harbor after so many tempests, was also

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