John Inglesant: A Romance (Volume 2 of 2)

  Produced by Al Haines.

  JOHN INGLESANT

  A Romance

  by

  John Henry Shorthouse

  [Greek: Agapetoi, nun tekna Theou esmen, kai oupo ephanerothe ti esometha.]

  VOL. II.

  London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1881

  _Printed by_ R & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.

  *JOHN INGLESANT.*

  *CHAPTER I.*

  Inglesant travelled to Marseilles, and by packet boat to Genoa. Thebeauty of the approach by sea to this city, and the lovely gardens andthe country around gave him the greatest delight. The magnificentstreets of palaces, mostly of marble, and the thronged public places,the galleries of paintings, and the museums, filled his mind withastonishment; and the entrance into Italy, wonderful as he had expectedit to be, surpassed his anticipation. He stayed some time in Genoa, toone or more of the Jesuit fathers in which city he had letters. Underthe guidance of these cultivated men he commenced an education in art,such as in these days can be scarcely understood. From his coming intoItaly a new life had dawned upon him in the music of that country.Fascinated as he had always been with the Church music at London andOxford, for several years he had been cut off from all such enjoyment,and, at its best, it was but the prelude to what he heard now. Forwhole hours he would remain on his knees at mass, lost and wandering inthat strange world of infinite variety, the mass music--so various inits phases, yet with a monotone of pathos through it all. The musicalparties were also a great pleasure. He played the violin a little inEngland, and rapidly improved by the excellent tuition he met with here.He became, however, a proficient in what the Italians called the violad'amore, a treble viol, strung with wire, which attracted him by itssoft and sweet tone. Amid a concord of sweet sounds, within hearing ofthe splash of fountains, and surrounded by the rich colours of anItalian interior, the young Englishman found himself in a new world ofdelight. As the very soul of music, at one moment merry and the next madwith passion and delightful pain, uttered itself in the long-continuedtremor of the violins, it took possession in all its power ofInglesant's spirit. The whole of life is recited upon the plaintivestrings, and by their mysterious effect upon the brain fibres, men arebrought into sympathy with life in all its forms, from the gay promiseof its morning sunrise to the silence of its gloomy night.

  From Genoa he went to Sienna, where he stayed some time--the dialecthere being held to be very pure, and fit for foreigners to accustomthemselves to. He spoke Italian before with sufficient ease, andassociating with several of the religious in this city he soon acquiredthe language perfectly. There can be nothing more delightful than thefirst few days of life in Italy in the company of polished and congenialmen. Inglesant enjoyed life at Sienna very much; the beautiful cleantown, all marble and polished brick, the shining walls and pavementsoftened and shaded by gardens and creeping vines, the piazza andfountains, the cool retired walks with distant prospects, the Duomo,within and without of polished marble inexpressibly beautiful, with itsexceeding sweet music and well-tuned organs, the libraries full ofobjects of the greatest interest, the statues and antiquities everywhereinterspersed.

  The summer and winter passed over, and he was still in Sienna, andseemed loth to leave. He associated mostly with the ecclesiastics towhom he had brought letters of introduction, for he was more anxious atfirst to become acquainted with the country and its treasures of art andliterature than to make many acquaintances. He kept himself so closeand studious that he met with no adventures such as most travellers,especially those who abandon themselves to the dissolute courses of thecountry, meet with,--courses which were said at that time to be able tomake a devil out of a saint. He saw nothing of the religious system butwhat was excellent and delightful, seeing everything through the mediumof his friends. He read all the Italian literature that was considerednecessary for a gentleman to be acquainted with; and though the learningof the Fathers was not what it had been a century ago, he still foundseveral to whom he could talk of his favourite Lucretius and of thedivine lessons of Plato.

  When he had spent some time in this way in Italy, and considered himselffitted to associate with the inhabitants generally, the Benedictinestook Inglesant to visit the family of Cardinal Chigi, who was afterwardsPope, and who was a native of Sienna. The cardinal himself was in Rome,but his brother, Don Mario, received Inglesant politely, and introducedhim to his son, Don Flavio, and to two of his nephews. With one ofthese, Don Agostino di Chigi, Inglesant became very intimate, and spentmuch of his time at his house. In this family he learnt much of thestate of parties in Rome, and was advised in what way to comport himselfwhen he should come there. The Cardinal Panzirollo, who with theCardinal-Patron (Pamphilio), had lately been in great esteem, had justdied, having weakened his health by his continued application tobusiness, and the Pope had appointed Cardinal Chigi his successor asfirst Secretary of State. The Pope's sister-in-law, Donna OlympiaMaldachini, was supposed to be banished, but many thought this was onlya political retreat, and that she still directed the affairs of thePapacy. At any rate she soon returned to Rome and to power. Thisextraordinary woman, whose loves and intrigues were enacted on the stagein Protestant countries, was the sister-in-law of the Pope, and was saidto live with him in criminal correspondence, and to have charmed him bysome secret incantation--the incantation of a strong woman over a weakand criminal man. For a long time she had abused her authority in themost scandalous manner, and exerted her unbounded ascendency over thePope to gratify her avarice and ambition, which were as unbounded as herpower. She disposed of all benefices, which she kept vacant till shewas fully informed of their value; she exacted a third of the entirevalue of all offices, receiving twelve years' value for an office forlife. She gave audience upon public affairs, enacted new laws,abrogated those of former Popes, and sat in council with the Pope withbundles of memorials in her hands. Severe satires were daily pasted onthe statue of Pasquin at Rome; yet it seemed so incredible that CardinalPanzirollo, backed though he was by the Cardinal-Nephew, should be ableto overthrow the power of this woman by a representation he was said tohave made to the Pope, that when Innocent at length, with greatreluctance banished Olympia, most persons supposed it was only atemporary piece of policy.

  The Chigi were at this time living in Sienna, in great simplicity, attheir house in the Strada Romana, and in one or two small villas in theneighbourhood; but they were of an ancient and noble family of thisplace, and were held in great esteem, and were all of them men ofrefinement and carefully educated. They had made considerable figure inRome during the Pontificate of Julius II.; but afterwards meeting withmisfortunes, were obliged to return to Sienna, where they had continuedto reside ever since. At this time there was no idea that the Cardinalof this house would be the next Pope, and though well acquainted withthe politics of Rome, the family occupied themselves mostly with otherand more innocent amusements--in the arrangement of their gardens andestates, in the duties of hospitality, and in artistic, literary, andantiquarian pursuits. The University and College of Sienna had producedmany excellent scholars and several Popes, and the city itself was fullof remains of antique art, and was adorned with many modern works ofgreat beauty--the productions of that school which takes its name fromthe town. Among such scenes as these, and with such companions,Inglesant's time passed so pleasantly that he was in no hurry to go
onto Rome.

  The country about the city was celebrated for hunting, and the wild boarand the stag afforded excellent and exciting, if sometimes dangeroussport. Amid the beautiful valleys, rich with vineyards, and overlookedby rocky hills and castled summits, were scenes fitted both for pleasureand sport; and the hunting gave place, often and in a moment, to _alfresco_ banquets, and conversations and pleasant dalliance with theladies, by the cool shade near some fountain, or under some over-archingrock. Under the influence of these occupations, so various and soattractive both to the mind and body, and thanks to so many novelobjects and continual change of scene, Inglesant's health rapidlyimproved, and his mind recovered much of the calm and cheerfulness whichwere natural to it. He thought little of the Italian, and the terriblethoughts with which he had connected him were for the time almostforgotten, though, from time to time, when any accident recalled thecircumstances to his recollection, they returned upon his spirits with amelancholy effect.

  The first time that these gloomy thoughts overpowered him since hisarrival at Sienna was on the following occasion. He had been huntingwith a party of friends in the valley of Montalcino one day in earlyautumn. The weather previously had been wet, and the rising sun haddrawn upward masses of white vapour, which wreathed the green foliageand the vine slopes, where the vintage was going on, and concealed fromsight the hills on every side. A pale golden light pervaded everyplace, and gave mystery and beauty to the meanest cottages andfarm-sheds. The party, having missed the stag, stopped at a smallosteria at the foot of a sloping hill, and Inglesant and anothergentleman wandered up into the vineyard that sloped upwards behind thehouse. As they went up, the vines became gradually visible out of thesilvery mist, and figures of peasant men and women moved about--vagueand half-hidden until they were close to them; pigeons and doves flew inand out. Inglesant's friend stopped to speak to some of the peasantgirls; but Inglesant himself, tempted by the pleasing mystery that themountain slope--apparently full of hidden and beautiful life--presented,wandered on, gradually climbing higher and higher, till he had left thevintage far below him, and heard no sound but that of the grasshoppersamong the grass and the olive trees, and the distant laugh of thevillagers, or now and then the music of a hunting horn, which one of theparty below was blowing for his own amusement. The mist was now sothick that he could see nothing, and it was by chance that he even keptthe ascending path. The hill was rocky here and there, but for the mostpart was covered with short grass, cropped by the goats which Inglesantstartled as he came unexpectedly upon them in the mist. Suddenly, aftersome quarter of an hour's climbing, he came out of the mist in a moment,and stood under a perfectly clear sky upon the summit of the hill. Theblue vault stretched above him without a cloud, all alight with themorning sun; at his feet the grassy hill-top sparkling in dew, not yetdried up, and vocal with grasshoppers, not yet silenced by the heat.Nothing could be seen but wreaths of cloud. The hill-top rose like anisland out of a sea of vapour, seething and rolling round in mistywaves, and lighted with prismatic colours of every hue. Out of thissea, here and there, other hill-tops, on which goats were browsing, laybeneath the serene heaven; and rocky points and summits, far higher thanthese, reflected back the sun. He would have seemed to stand above allhuman conversation and walks of men, if every now and then some break inthe mist had not taken place, opening glimpses of landscapes andvillages far below; and also the sound of bells, and the music of thehorn, came up fitfully through the mist. Why, he did not know, but ashe gazed on this, the most wonderful and beautiful sight he had everseen, the recollection of Serenus de Cressy returned upon his mind withintense vividness; and the contrast between the life he was leading inItaly, amid every delight of mind and sense, and the life theBenedictine had offered him in vain, smote upon his conscience withterrible force. Upon the lonely mountain top, beneath the serenesilence, he threw himself upon the turf, and, overwhelmed with a suddenpassion, repented that he had been born. Amid the extraordinaryloveliness, the most gloomy thoughts took possession of him, and thefiend seemed to stand upon the smiling mount and claim him for himself.So palpably did the consciousness of his choice, worldly as he thoughtit, cause the presence of evil to appear, that in that heavenly solitudehe looked round for the murderer of his brother. The moment appeared tohim, for the instant, to be the one appointed for the consummation ofhis guilt. The horn below sounding the recall drew his mind out of thisterrible reverie, and he came down the hill (from which the mist wasgradually clearing) as in a dream. He rejoined his company, who remarkedthe wild expression of his face.

  His old disease, in fact, never entirely left him; he walked often as ina dream, and when the fit was upon him could never discern the real andthe unreal. He knew that terrible feeling when the world and all itsobjects are slipping away, when the brain reels, and seems only to bekept fixed and steady by a violent exertion of the will; and the mind isconfused and perplexed with thoughts which it cannot grasp, and is fullof fancies of vague duties and acts which it cannot perform, though itis convinced that they are all important to be done.

  The Chigi family knew of Inglesant's past life, and of his acquaintancewith the Archbishop of Fermo, the Pope's Nuncio, and they advised him tomake the acquaintance of his brother, the Cardinal Rinuccini, beforegoing to Rome.

  "If you go to Rome in his train, or have him for a patron on yourarrival, you will start in a much better position than if you enter thecity an entire stranger,--and the present is not a very favourable timefor going to Rome. The Pope is not expected to live very long. DonnaOlympia and the Pamphili, or pretended Pamphili (for the Cardinal-Nephewis not a Pamphili at all), are securing what they can, using everymoment to enrich themselves while they have the power. The moment thePope dies they fall, and with them all who have been connected withthem. It is therefore useless to go to Rome at present, except as aprivate person to see the city, and this you can do better in the suiteof the Cardinal than in any other way. You may wonder that we do notoffer to introduce you to our uncle the Cardinal Chigi; but we hadrather that you should come to Rome at first under the patronage ofanother. You will understand more of our reasons before long;meanwhile, we will write to our uncle respecting you, and you may besure that he will promote your interests as much as is in his power."

  The Cardinal Rinuccini was at that time believed to be at his own villa,situated in a village some distance from Florence to the north, and DonAgostino offered to accompany Inglesant so far on his journey.

  This ride, though a short one, was very pleasant, and endeared the twomen to each other more than ever. They travelled simply, with a verysmall train, and did not hurry themselves on the route. Indeed, theytravelled so leisurely that they were very nearly being too late fortheir purpose. On their arrival at the last stage before reachingFlorence, they stopped for the night at a small osteria, and had nosooner taken up their quarters than a large train arrived at the inn,and on their inquiry they were informed it was the Cardinal Rinuccinihimself on his way to Rome. They immediately sent their names to hisEminence, saying they had been coming to pay their respects to him, andoffering to resign their apartment, which was the best in the house.The Cardinal, who travelled in great state, with his four-post bed andfurniture of all kinds with him, returned a message that he could notdisturb them in their room; that he remembered Mr. Inglesant's name insome letters from his brother; and that he should be honoured by theircompany to supper.

  The best that the village could afford was placed on the Cardinal'stable, and their host entertained the two young men with great courtesy.

  He was descended from a noble family in Florence, which boasted amongits members Octavio Rinuccini the poet, who came to Paris in the suiteof Marie de Medicis, and is said by some to have been the inventor ofthe Opera. Besides the Pope's Legate another brother of the Cardinal's,Thomas Battista Rinuccini, was Great Chamberlain to the Grand Duke ofTuscany. All the brothers had been carefully educated, and were men ofliterary tastes; but while the Archbishop had
devoted himself mostly topolitics, the Cardinal had confined himself almost entirely to literarypursuits. He owed his Cardinal's hat to the Grand Duke, who wasextremely partial to him, and promoted his interests in every way. Hewas a man of profound learning, and an enthusiastic admirer ofantiquity, but was also an acute logician and theologian, and perfectlywell-read in Church history, and in the controversy of the century, bothin theology and philosophy. Before the end of supper Inglesant foundthat he was acquainted with the writings of Hobbes, whom he had met inItaly, and of whom he inquired with interest, as soon as he foundInglesant had been acquainted with him.

  The following morning the Cardinal expressed his sorrow that thebusiness which took him to Rome was of so important a nature that itobliged him to proceed without delay. He approved of the advice thatInglesant had already received, and recommended him to proceed toFlorence with Don Agostino, as he was so near; so that he might not havehis journey for nothing, and might see the city under very favourablecircumstances. Inglesant was the more ready to agree to this as hewished to see as much of Italy as he could, unshackled by the company ofthe great, which, in the uncertain state of health both of his body andmind, was inexpressibly burdensome to him. He had already seen in thislast journey a great deal of the distress and bad government whichprevailed everywhere; and he wished to make himself acquainted, in somemeasure, with the causes of this distress before going to Rome. As herode through the beautiful plains he had been astonished at the fewinhabitants, and at the wretchedness of the few. Italy had sufferedgreatly in her commerce by the introduction of Indian silks into Europe.Some of her most flourishing cities had been depopulated, their noblesruined; and long streets of neglected palaces, deserted and left inmagnificent decay, presented a melancholy though romantic spectacle.But bad government, and the oppression and waste caused by theaccumulated wealth and idleness of the innumerable religious orders, hadmore to do in ruining the prosperity of the country than any commercialchanges; and proofs of this fact met the traveller's eye on every hand.

  It seemed to Inglesant that it was very necessary that he should satisfyhimself upon some of these points before becoming involved in anypolitical action in the country; and he shrank from entering Rome atpresent, and from attaching himself to any great man or any party. In acountry where the least false step is fatal, and may plunge a man inirretrievable ruin, or consign him to the dungeons of the Holy Office,it is certainly prudent in a stranger to be wary of his first steps.Having communicated these resolutions to his friend, the two young men,on their arrival at Florence, took lodgings privately in the Piazza delSpirito Santo; and occupied their time for some days in viewing thecity, and visiting the churches and museums, as though they had beensimply travellers from curiosity.

  Inglesant believed the Italian to be in Rome, which was a further reasonfor delaying his journey there. He believed that he was going to engagein some terrible conflict, and he wished to prepare himself by anacquaintance with every form of life in this strange country. Thesingular scenes that strike a stranger in Italy--the religiousprocessions, the character and habits of the poorer classes, their ideasof moral obligation, their ecclesiastical and legal government--allappeared to him of importance to his future fate.

  As he was perfectly unacquainted with the person of his enemy, there wasa sort of vague expectation--not to say dread--always present to hismind; for, though he fancied that it would be in Rome that he shouldfind the Italian, yet it was not at all impossible that at anymoment--it might be in Florence, or in the open country--he might be theobject of a murderous attack. His person was doubtless known to themurderer of his brother, and he thus walked everywhere in the fulllight, while his enemy was hidden in the dark.

  These ideas were seldom absent from his mind, and the image of themurderer was almost constantly before his eyes. Often, as some markedfigure crossed his path, he started and watched the retreating form,wondering whether the object of his morbid dread was before him. Often,as the uncovered corpse was borne along the streets, the thought struckhim that perhaps his fear and his search were alike needless, and thatbefore him on the bier, harmless and strewn with flowers, lay histerrible foe. These thoughts naturally prevented his engagingunrestrainedly in the pursuits of his age and rank, and he often let DonAgostino go alone into the gay society which was open to them inFlorence.

  In pursuit of his intention Inglesant took every opportunity, withoutincurring remark, of associating with the lower orders, and learningtheir habits, traditions, and tone of thought. He chose streets whichled through the poorer parts of the town in passing from one part toanother, and in this way, and in the course of his visits to differentchurches and religious houses, he was able to converse with the commonpeople without attracting attention. In excursions into the country,whether on parties of pleasure or for sport, he was also able to throwhimself in the same way among the peasantry. Under the pretence ofshooting quails he passed several days in more than one country village,and had become acquainted with several of the cures, from whom he gainedmuch information respecting the habits of the people, and of their ideasof crime and of lawful revenge.

  One of these cures--a man of penetration and intellect--strongly advisedhim to see Venice before he went to Rome.

  "Venice," he said to him, "is the sink of all wickedness, and as such itis desirable that you should see the people there, and mix with them;besides, as such, it is not at all unlikely that the man you seek may befound there."

  "What is the cause of this wickedness?" asked Inglesant.

  "There are several causes," replied the priest. "One is that the HolyOffice there is under the control of the State, and is therefore almostpowerless. Wickedness and license of all kinds are thereforeunrestrained."

  Inglesant mentioned this advice to Don Agostino, and his desire toproceed to Venice; but as the other was unwilling to leave Florence tillthe termination of the Carnival, which was now approaching, he wasobliged to postpone his intention for some weeks.

  On one of the opening days of the Carnival, Inglesant had accompaniedDon Agostino to a magnificent supper given by the Grand Duke at hisvilla and gardens at the Poggia Imperiale, some distance outside theRomana gate.

  Inglesant had succeeded in throwing off for a time his gloomy thoughts,and had taken his share in the gaiety of the festival; but the effortand the excitement had produced a reaction, and towards morning he hadsucceeded in detaching himself from the company, many of whom--thebanquet being over--were strolling in the lovely gardens in the cool airwhich preceded the dawn, and he returned alone to the city. As this washis frequent custom, his absence did not surprise Don Agostino, whoscarcely noticed his friend's eccentricities.

  When Inglesant reached Florence, the sun had scarcely risen, and in themiraculously clear and solemn light the countless pinnacles and marblefronts of the wonderful city rose with sharp colour and outline into thesky. It lay with the country round it studded with the lines of cypressand encompassed by the massy hills--silent as the grave, and lovely asparadise; and ever and anon, as it lay in the morning light, a breezefrom the mountains passed over it, rustling against the marble facadesand through the belfries of its towers, like the whisper of a God. Nowand again, clear and sharp in the liquid air, the musical bells of theCampanili rang out the time. The cool expanse of the gardens, thecountry walk, the pure air, and the silent city, seemed to him to chideand reprove the license and gaiety of the night. Excited by the eventsof the Carnival, his mind and imagination were in that state in which,from the inward fancy, phantoms are projected upon the real stage oflife, and, playing their fantastic parts, react upon the excited sense,producing conduct which in turn is real in its result.

  As Inglesant entered the city and turned into one of the narrow streetsleading up from the Arno, the market people were already entering by thegates, and thronging up with their wares to the Piazze and the markets.Carpenters were already at work on the scaffolds and other preparationsfor the concluding festivals of the Carniva
l; but all these people, andall their actions, and even the sounds that they produced, wore thatunreal and unsubstantial aspect which the very early morning light castsupon everything.

  As Inglesant ascended the narrow street, between the white stone houseswhich set off the brilliant blue above, several porters andcountrywomen, carrying huge baskets and heaps of country produce,ascended with him, or passed him as he loitered along, and other moreidle and equivocal persons, who were just awake, looked out upon himfrom doorways and corners as he passed. He had on a gala dress of silk,somewhat disordered by the night and by his walk, and must have appeareda suitable object for the lawless attempts of the ladroni of a greatcity; but his appearance was probably not sufficiently helpless toencourage attack.

  Half-way up the street, at the corner of a house, stood an image of theVirgin, round which the villagers stopped for a moment, as much to restas to pay their devotions. As Inglesant stopped also, he noticed an oldman of a wretched and abject demeanour, leaning against the wall of thehouse as though scarcely able to stand, and looking eagerly at some ofthe provisions which were carried past him. True to his custom,Inglesant--when he had given him some small coin as an alms--began tospeak to him.

  "You have carried many such loads as these, father, I doubt not, in yourtime, though it must be a light one now."

  "I am past carrying even myself," said the other, in a weak and whiningvoice; "but I have not carried loads all my life. I have kept a shop onthe Goldsmith's Bridge, and have lived at my ease. Now I have nothingleft me but the sun--the sun and the cool shade."

  "Yours is a hard fate."

  "It is a hard and miserable world, and yet I love it. It has done menothing but evil, and yet I watch it and seek out what it does, andlisten to what goes on, just as if I thought to hear of any good fortunelikely to come to me. Foolish old man that I am! What is it to me whatpeople say or do, or who dies, or who is married? and why should I comeout here to see the market people pass, and climb this street to hear ofthe murder that was done here last night, and look at the body that liesin the room above?"

  "What murder?" said Inglesant. "Who was murdered, and by whom?"

  "He is a foreigner; they say an Inglese--a traveller here merely. Whomurdered him I know not, though they do say that too."

  "Where is the body?" said Inglesant. "Let us go up." And he gave theold man another small coin.

  The old man looked at him for a moment with a peculiar expression.

  "Better not, Signore," he said; "better go home."

  "Do not fear for me," said Inglesant; "I bear a charmed life; no steelcan touch me, nor any bullet hurt me, till my hour comes; and my hour isnot yet."

  The old man led the way to an open door, carved with tracery andfoliaged work, and they ascended a flight of stairs. It was one of thosehouses, so common in Italian towns, whose plain and massive exterior,pierced with few and narrow windows, gives no idea of the size andsplendour of the rooms within. When they reached the top of the stairs,Inglesant saw that the house had once, and probably not long before,been the residence of some person of wealth. They passed throughseveral rooms with carved chimney-pieces and cornices, and here andthere even some massive piece of furniture still remained. From thewindows that opened on the inner side Inglesant could see the tallcypresses of a garden, and hear the splash of fountains. But the househad fallen from its high estate, and was now evidently used for thevilest purposes. After passing two or three rooms, they reached anupper hall or dining-room of considerable length, and painted in frescoapparently of some merit. A row of windows on the left opened on thegarden, from which the sound of voices and laughter came up.

  The room was bare of furniture, except towards the upper end, where wasa small and shattered table, upon which the body of the murdered man waslaid. Inglesant went up and stood by its side.

  There was no doubt whose countryman he had been. The fair English boy,scarcely bordering upon manhood--the heir, probably, of brighthopes--travelling with a careless or incompetent tutor, lay upon thesmall table, his long hair glistening in the sunlight, his face peacefuland smiling as in sleep. The fatal rapier thrust, marked by the stainupon the clothes, was the sole sign that his mother--waking up probablyat that moment in distant England, with his image in her heart--wasbereaved for ever of her boy. Inglesant stood silent a few moments,looking sadly down; that other terrible figure, upon the whitehearthstone, was so constantly in his mind, that this one, so like it,scarcely could be said to recall the image of his murdered brother; butthe whole scene certainly strengthened his morbid fancy, and it seemedto him that he was on the footsteps of the murderer, and that his fatewas drawing near.

  "His steps are still in blood," he said aloud; "and it is warm; hecannot be far off."

  He turned, as he spoke, to look for the old man, but he was gone, and inhis place a ghastly figure met Inglesant's glance.

  Standing about three feet from the table, a little behind Inglesant, andalso looking fixedly at the murdered boy, was the figure of a corpse.The face was thin and fearfully white, and the whole figure was wrappedand swathed in grave-clothes, somewhat disordered and loosened, so as togive play to the limbs. This form took no notice of the other'spresence, but continued to gaze at the body with its pallid ghastlyface.

  Inglesant scarcely started. Nothing could seem more strange and unrealto him than what was passing on every side. That the dead should returnand stand by him seemed to him not more fearful and unreal than all therest.

  Suddenly the corpse turned its eyes upon Inglesant, and regarded himwith a fixed and piercing glance.

  "You spoke of the author of this deed as though you knew him," it said.

  "I am on the track of a murderer, and my fate is urging me on. It seemsto me that I see his bloody steps."

  "This was no murder," said the corpse, in an irritated and impatientvoice. "It was a chance melee, and an unfortunate and unhappy thrust;we do not even know the name of the man who lies there. Are you theavenger of blood, that you see murder at every step?"

  "I am in truth the avenger of blood," said Inglesant in a low andmelancholy voice; "would I were not."

  The corpse continued to look at Inglesant fixedly, and would havespoken, but the voices which had been heard in the garden now seemed tocome nearer, and hurried steps approached the room. The laughter thatInglesant had heard was stilled, and deep and solemn voices strovetogether, and one above the rest said, "Bring up the murderer."

  The corpse turned round impatiently, and the next moment from a smalldoor, which opened on a covered balcony and outside staircase to thegarden, there came hurriedly in a troop of the most strange andfantastic figures that the eye could rest upon. Angels and demons, andsavage men in lions' skins, and men with the heads of beasts and birds,swarmed tumultuously in, dragging with them an unfortunate being in hisnight-clothes, and apparently just out of bed, whom they urged on withblows. This man, who was only half-awake, was evidently in theextremity of terror, and looked upon himself as already in the place ofeternal torment. He addressed now one and now another of histormentors, as well as he could find breath, in the most abject terms,endeavouring, in the most ludicrous manner, to choose the titles andepithets to address them most in accordance with the individualappearance that the spectre he entreated wore to his dazzledeyes--whether a demon or an angel, a savage or a man-beast. When he sawthe murdered man, and the terrible figure that stood by Inglesant, henearly fainted with terror; but, on many voices demanding loudly that heshould be brought in contact with the body of his victim, he recovered alittle, and recognizing in Inglesant, at least, a being of an earthlysphere, and by his dress a man of rank, he burst from his tormentors,and throwing himself at his feet, he entreated his protection, assuringhim that he had been guilty of no murder, having just been dragged froma sound sleep, and being even ignorant that a murder had been committed.

  Inglesant took little notice of him, but the corpse interposed betweenthe man and the fantastic crew. It wa
s still apparently in a very badhumour, especially with Inglesant, and said imperiously,--"We haveenough and too much of this foolery. Have not some of you done enoughmischief for one night? This gentleman says he is on the track of amurderer, and will have it that he sees his traces in this unfortunateaffair."

  At these words the masquers crowded round Inglesant with wild andthreatening gestures, apparently half earnest and half the result ofwine, and as many of them were armed with great clubs, the consequencesmight have seemed doubtful to one whose feelings were less excited thanInglesant's were.

  He, however, as though the proceeding were a matter of course, merelytook off his hat, and addressed the others in explanation.

  "I am indeed in pursuit of a murderer, the murderer of my brother--agallant and noble gentleman who was slain foully in cold blood. Themurderer was an Italian, his name Malvolti. Do any of you, signori,happen to have heard of such a man?"

  There was a pause after this singular address, but the next moment ademon of terrific aspect forced his way to the front, saying in a toneof drunken consequence,--

  "I knew him formerly at Lucca; he was well born and my friend."

  "He was, and is, a scelerat and a coward," said Inglesant fiercely. "Itwould be well to be more careful of your company, sir."

  "Have I not said he was my friend, sir?" cried the demon, furious withpassion. "Who will lend me a rapier?"

  A silent and melancholy person, with the head of an owl, who had severalunder his arm, immediately tendered him one with a low bow, and themasquers fell back in a circle, while the demon, drawing his weapon,threw himself into an attitude and attacked Inglesant, who, afterlooking at him for a moment, also drew his rapier and stood upon hisguard. It soon appeared that the demon was a very moderate fencer; inless than a minute his guard was entered by Inglesant's irresistibletierce, and he would have been infallibly run through the body had henot saved himself by rolling ignominiously on the ground.

  This incident appeared to restore the corpse to good humour; it laughed,and turning to the masquers said,--

  "Gentlemen, let me beg of you to disperse as quickly as possible beforethe day is any farther advanced. You know of the rendezvous at oneo'clock. I will see the authorities as to this unhappy affair. Sir,"he continued, turning to Inglesant, "you are, I believe, the friend ofDon Agostino di Chigi, whom he has been introducing into Florentinesociety; if it will amuse you to see a frolic of the Carnival carriedout, of which this is only the somewhat unfortunate rehearsal, and willmeet me this afternoon at two o'clock, at the Great Church in the ViaLarga, I shall be happy to do my best to entertain you; a simple dominowill suffice. I am the Count Capece."

  Inglesant gave his name in return. He apologized for not accepting theCount's courtesy, on the plea of ill-health, but assured him he wouldtake advantage of his offer to cultivate his acquaintance. They leftthe house together, the Count covering himself with a cloak, andInglesant accompanied him to the office of police, from whence he wentto his lodging and to his bed.

  He arose early in the afternoon, and remembering the invitation he hadreceived, he went out into the Via Larga. The streets formed a strangecontrast to the stillness and calm of the cool morning. The afternoonwas hot, and the city crowded with people of every class and rank. Thebalconies and windows of the principal streets were full of ladies andchildren; trophies and embroideries hung from the houses and crossed thestreet. Strings of carriages and country carts, dressed with flowersand branches of trees, paraded the streets. Every variety of fantasticand grotesque costume, and every shade of colour, filled and confusedthe eye. Music, laughter, and loud talking filled the ear. Inglesant,from his simple costume and grave demeanour, became the butt of severalnoisy parties; but used as he was to great crowds, and to the confusedrevelries of Courts, he was able to disentangle himself with mutualgood-humour. He recognized his friends of the morning, who wereperforming a kind of comedy on a country cart, arched with boughs, inimitation of the oldest form of the itinerant theatre. He wasrecognized by them also, for, in a pause of the performance, as he wasmoving down a bye-street, he was accosted by one of the company,enveloped in a large cloak. He had no difficulty in recognizing beneaththis concealment his antagonist of the morning, who still supported hischaracter of demon.

  "I offer you my apologies for the occurrences of this morning, signore,"he said, "having been informed by my friends more closely concerningthem than I can myself recollect. I am also deeply interested in theperson of whom you spoke, who formerly was a friend of mine; and I mustalso have been acquainted with the signore, your brother, of which I amthe more certain as your appearance every moment recalls him more andmore to my mind. I should esteem it a great favour to be allowed tospeak at large with you on these matters. If you will allow me to paymy respects at your lodgings, I will conduct you to my father's house,il Conte Pericon di Visalvo, where I can show you many things which maybe of interest to you respecting the man whom I understand you seek."

  Inglesant replied that he should gladly avail himself of his society,and offered to come to the Count's house early the next day.

  He found the house, a sombre plain one, in a quiet street, with a tallfront pierced with few windows. At the low door hung a wine-flask, as asign that wine was sold within; for the sale of wine by retail wasconfined to the gentry, the common people being only allowed to sellwholesale. The Count was the fortunate possessor of a very finevineyard, which made his wine much in request, and Inglesant found thewhole ground-floor of his house devoted to this retail traffic. Havinginquired for the Count, he was led up the staircase into a vestibule,and from thence into the Count's own room. This was a large apartmentwith windows looking on to the court, with a suite of rooms openingbeyond it. It was handsomely furnished, with several cages full ofsinging birds in the windows. Outside, the walls of the houses formingthe courtyard were covered with vines and creeping jessamine and otherplants, and a fountain splashed in the centre of the court, which wascovered with a coloured awning.

  The old Count received Inglesant politely. He was a tall, spare oldman, with a reserved and dignified manner, more like that of a Spaniardthan of an Italian. Rather to Inglesant's surprise he introduced him tohis daughter, on whom, as she sat near one of the windows, Inglesant'seyes had been fixed from the moment he had entered the room. TheItalians were so careful of the ladies of their families, and it was sounusual to allow strangers to see them, that his surprise was notunnatural, especially as the young lady before him was remarkablybeautiful. She was apparently very young, tall and dark-eyed, with ahaughty and indifferent manner, which concentrated itself entirely uponher father.

  The Count noticed Inglesant's surprise at the cordiality of hisreception, and seemed to speak as if in explanation.

  "You are no stranger to us, signore," he said; "my son has not onlycommended you to me, but your intimacy with Count Agostino has endearedyou already to us who admire and love him."

  As Agostino had told him the evening before that he knew little of thesepeople, though he believed the old Count to be respectable, this ratherincreased Inglesant's surprise; but he merely said that he was fortunatein possessing a friend whose favour procured him such advantages.

  "My son's affairs," continued the old man, "unavoidably took him abroadthis morning, but I wait his return every moment."

  Inglesant suspected that the Cavaliere, who appeared to him to be acomplete debauchee, had not been at home at all that night; but if thatwere the case, when he entered the room a few moments afterwards, hismanner was completely self-possessed and quiet, and showed no signs of anight of revelry.

  As soon as they were seated the Cavaliere began to explain to Inglesantthat both his father and himself were anxious to see him, to conferrespecting the unfortunate circumstances which, as they imagined, hadbrought him to Italy upon a mission which they assured him was madlyimprudent.

  "Our nation, signore," said the Cavaliere, "is notorious for twopassions--jealousy and reve
nge. Both of these, combined withself-interest, induced Malvolti to commit the foul deed which heperpetrated upon your brother. While in Italy your brother crossed himin some of his amours, and also resented some indiscretions, which themanners of our nation regard with tolerance, but which your discreetercountrymen resent with unappeasable disgust. Our people never forgiveinjuries; nay, they entail them on their posterity. We ourselves leftour native city, Lucca, on account of one of these feuds, which made itunsafe for us to remain; and I could show you a gentleman's house inLucca whose master has never set foot out of doors for nine years, nay,scarcely looked out of window, for fear of being shot by an antagonistwho has several times planted ambushes to take away his life. It isconsidered a disgrace to a family that one of its members has forgivenan injury; and a mother will keep the bloody clothes of her murderedhusband, to incite her young sons to acts of vengeance. You will see,signore, the evil which such ideas as these winds about our lives; andhow unwise it must be in a stranger to involve himself needlessly insuch an intrigue, in a foreign country, unknown and comparativelywithout friends. Italy swarms with bravos hired to do the work ofvengeance; merchants are assaulted in their warehouses in open day; inthe public streets the highest personages in the land are not safe. Whatwill be the fate then of a stranger whose death is necessary to thesafety of an Italian?"

  "I understand you, signore," said Inglesant, "and I thank you for yourgood-will, but you are somewhat mistaken. I am not seeking the man ofwhom we speak, though, I confess, I came to Italy partly with theexpectation of meeting him, when it is the will of God, or the will ofthe Devil whom He permits to influence the affairs of men, that this manand I should meet. I shall not attempt to avoid the interview; it wouldbe useless if I did. The result of that meeting who can tell! But as Isaid yesterday to the Count Capece, till my hour comes I bear a charmedlife that cannot be taken, and any result I regard with supremeindifference, if so be I may, by any means, escape in the end the snaresof the Devil, who seeks to take me captive at his will."

  The two gentlemen regarded Inglesant with profound astonishment as heuttered these words; and the young lady in the window raised her eyestowards him as he was speaking (he spoke very pure Italian) with someappearance of interest.

  After a pause Inglesant went on, "I also venture to think, signore," hesaid, "that you are unaware of the position of this man, and of thecondition to which his crimes have brought him. I am well informed fromsure sources that he is without friends, and that his crimes have raisedhim more enemies in this country even than elsewhere; so that he isafraid to appear openly, lest he fall a victim to his own countrymen.He is also in abject poverty, and is therefore to a great extentpowerless to do evil."

  The Cavaliere smiled. "You do not altogether know this country,signore," he said; "there are always so many different factions andinterests at work that a daring useful man is never without patrons, whowill support and further his private interests in return for the servicehe may render them; and (though you may not be fully aware of it) it isbecause it is notorious that you are yourself supported and protected bya most powerful and widely spread faction, that your position in thiscountry is as assured and safe as it is."

  His words certainly struck Inglesant. The idea that he was already aknown and marked man in this wonderful country, and playing anacknowledged part in its fantastic drama, was new to him, and heremained silent.

  "From all ordinary antagonists," continued the Cavaliere, "thisknowledge is sufficient to secure you; no man would wish, unless ruinedand desperate, to draw on his head the swift and certain punishmentwhich a hand raised against your life would be sure to invoke. But areckless despairing man stops at nothing; and should you, by yourpresence even, endanger this man's standing in the favour of somenew-found patron, or impede the success of some freshly plannedscheme--perhaps the last hope of his ruined life--I would not buy yoursafety at an hour's rate."

  While the Cavaliere was speaking it was evident that his sister waslistening with great attention. The interest that she manifested, andthe singular attraction that Inglesant felt towards her, so occupied histhoughts that he could scarcely attend to what the other was saying,though he continued speaking for some time. It is possible that theCavaliere noticed this, for Inglesant was suddenly conscious that he wasregarding him fixedly and with a peculiar expression. He apologized forhis inattention on the ground of ill-health, and soon after took hisleave, having invited the Cavaliere to visit him at his lodgings.

  As Inglesant walked back through the streets of the city, he wasperplexed at his own sensations, which appeared so different from any hehad previously known. The attraction he experienced towards the lady hehad just seen was quite different from the affection he had felt forMary Collet. That was a sentiment which commended itself to his reasonand his highest feelings. In her company he felt himself soothed,elevated above himself, safe from danger and from temptation. In thislatter attraction he was conscious of a half-formed fear, of a sense ofglamour and peril, and of an alluring force independent of his ownfree-will. The opinion he had formed of her brother's character mayhave had something to do with these feelings, and the sense of perpetualdanger and insecurity with which he walked this land of mystery andintrigue no doubt increased it. He half resolved not to visit the oldnobleman again; but even while forming the resolution he knew that heshould break it.

  The circumstances in which he was placed, indeed, almost precluded sucha course. The very remarkable beauty of the young lady, and theextraordinary unreserve with which he had been introduced toher--unreserve so unusual in Italy--while it might increase themisgiving he felt, made it very difficult for him to decline theacquaintance. The girl's beauty was of a kind unusual in Italy, thoughnot unknown there, her hair being of a light brown, contrasting with hermagnificent eyes, which were of the true Italian splendour andbrilliancy. She had doubtless been kept in the strictest seclusion, andInglesant could only wonder what could have induced the old Count todepart from his usual caution.

  The next day, being Ash Wednesday, Inglesant was present at the Duomo atthe ceremony of the day, when the vast congregation received theemblematic ashes upon their foreheads. The Cavaliere was also presentwith his sister, whose name Inglesant discovered to be Lauretta. DonAgostino, to whom Inglesant had related the adventure, and theacquaintance to which it had led, was inclined to suspect these peopleof some evil purpose, and made what inquiries he could concerning them;but he could discover nothing to their discredit, further than that theCavaliere was a well-known debauchee, and that he had been involved insome intrigue, in connection with some of the present Papal family,which had not proved successful. He was in consequence then in disgracewith Donna Olympia and her faction,--a disappointment which it was saidhad rendered his fortunes very desperate, as he was very deeply involvedin debts of all kinds. Don Agostino, the Carnival being over, wasdesirous of returning to Sienna, unless Inglesant made up his mind to goat once to Venice, in which case he offered to accompany him. Hisfriend, however, did not appear at all desirous of quitting Florence, atany rate hastily, and Don Agostino left him and returned home, the twofriends agreeing to meet again before proceeding to Venice.

  His companion gone, Inglesant employed himself in frequenting all thosechurches to which Lauretta was in the habit of resorting during the HolySeason; and as every facility appeared to be given him by her friends,he became very intimate with her, and she on her part testified nodisinclination to his society. It will probably occur to the readerthat this conduct was not consistent with the cautious demeanour whichInglesant had resolved upon; but such resolutions have before now provedineffectual under similar circumstances, and doubtless the like willoccur again. Lauretta looked round as a matter of course, as she cameout of the particular church she had that day chosen, for the handsomecavalier who was certain to be ready to offer the drop of holy water;and more than one rival whom the beautiful devotee had attracted to theservice, noticed with envy the kindly look of the
masked eyes whichacknowledged the courtesy; and, indeed, it is not often that ladies'eyes have rested upon a lover more attractive to a girl of a refinednature than did Lauretta's, when, in the dawn of the March mornings, shesaw John Inglesant waiting for her on the marble steps. It is true thatshe thought the Cavaliere Inglese somewhat melancholy and sad, but herown disposition was reserved and pensive; and in her presenceInglesant's melancholy was so far charmed away that it became only anadded grace of sweetness of manner, and of tender deference andprotection. The servant of the polished King of England, the companionof Falkland and of Caernarvon, the French Princess's favourite page,trained in every art that makes life attractive, that makes life itselfthe finest art, with a memory and intellect stored with the poetry andlearning of the antique world,--it would have been strange if, whereonce his fancy was touched, Inglesant had not made a finished andattractive lover.

  The familiar streets of Florence, the bridges, or the walks by the Arno,assumed a new charm to the young girl, when she saw them in company withher pleasant and courteous friend; and whether in the early morning itwas a few spring flowers that he brought her, or a brilliant jewel thathe placed upon her finger as he parted in the soft Italian night, it wasthe giver, and the grace with which the gift was made, that won theromantic fancy of the daughter of the south. Their talk was not of thekind that lovers often use. He would indeed begin with relating storiesof the English Court, in the bright fleeting days before the war, of thecourtly refined revels, of the stately dances and plays, and of theboating parties on the wooded Thames; but most often the narrativechanged its tone instinctively, and went on to speak of sadder andhigher things; of self-denial and devotion of ladies and children, whosuffered for their King without complaint; of the Ferrars and their holylife; of the martyred Archbishop and of the King's death; and sometimesperhaps of some sight of battle and suffering the narrator himself hadseen, as when the evening sun was shining upon the glassy slope ofNewbury, and he knelt beside the dying Caernarvon, unmindful of thebullets that fell around.

  "You have deserved well of the King," he whispered: "have you no requestthat I may make to him, nothing for your children, or your wife?"

  And with his eyes fixed upon the western horizon the Earl replied,--

  "No, I will go hence with no request upon my lips but to the King ofkings."

  How all this pleasant dalliance would have terminated, had it continued,we have no means of knowing, for a sudden and unexpected end was put toit, at any rate for a time.

  Easter was over, and the Cavaliere had invited Inglesant to join in asmall party to spend a day or two at his vineyard and country houseamong the Apennines, assuring him that at that time of the year thevalleys and hill-slopes were very delightful.

  The evening before the day on which the little company was to start,Inglesant had an engagement at one of the theatres in Florence, where acomedy or pantomime was being performed. The comedies in Italy at thistime were paltry in character in everything except the music, which wasvery good. Inglesant accompanied a Signore Gabriotto, a violin player,who was engaged at the theatre, and of whom Inglesant had taken lessons,and with whom he had become intimate. This man was not only an admirableperformer on the violin, but was a man of cultivation and taste. He hadgiven much study to the music of the ancients, and especially to theirmusical instruments, as they are to be seen in the hands of the Apollos,muses, fauns, satyrs, bacchanals, and shepherds of the classicsculptors. As they walked through the streets in the evening sunlight,he favoured his companion, whom he greatly admired as an excellentlistener, with a long discourse on this subject, showing how useful suchan inquiry was, not only to obtain a right notion of the ancient music,but also to help us to obtain pleasanter instruments if possible thanthose at present in use.

  "Not, signore," he said, "that I think we have much to learn from theancients; for if we are to judge their instruments by the appearancethey make in marble, there is not one that is comparable to our violins;for they seem, as far as I can make out, all to have been played oneither by the bare fingers or the plectrum, so that they could not addlength to their notes, nor could they vary them by that insensibleswelling and dying away of sound upon the same string which gives sowonderful a sweetness to our modern music. And as far as I can see,their stringed instruments must have had very low and feeble voices fromthe small proportion of wood used (though it is difficult to judge ofthis, seeing that all our examples are represented in marble), whichwould prevent the instruments containing sufficient air to render thestrokes full or sonorous. Now my violin," continued the Italian withenthusiasm, "does not speak only with the strings, it speaks all over,as though it were a living creature that was all voice, or, as is reallythe case, as though it were full of sound."

  "You have a wonderful advantage," said Inglesant, "you Italians, thatis, in the cultivation of the art of life; for you have the unbrokentradition, and habit and tone of mind, from the old world of pleasureand art--a world that took the pleasures of life boldly, and had noconscience to prevent its cultivating and enjoying them to the full.But I must say that you have not, to my mind, improved during the lapseof centuries, nor is the comedy we shall see to-night what might beexpected of a people who are the descendants of the old Italians whoapplauded Terence."

  "The comedy to-night," said the Italian, "would be nothing without themusic, the acting is a mere pretence."

  "The comedy itself," said Inglesant, "would be intolerable but for thebuffoons, and the people show their sense in demanding that place shallbe found in every piece for these worthies. The play itself is stiltedand unreal, but there is always something of irony and wit in thesecharacters, which men have found full of satire and humour for fourthousand years: Harlequin the reckless fantastic youth, Pantaleone thepoor old worn-out 'Senex,' and Corviello the rogue. In their absurdimpertinences, in their impossible combinations, in their mistakes andtumbles, in their falling over queens and running up against monarchs,men have always seemed to see some careless, light-hearted,half-indifferent sarcasm and satire upon their own existence."

  When they reached the theatre, the slant rays of the setting sun wereshining between the lofty houses, and many people were standing aboutthe doors. Inglesant accompanied the violinist to the door of theplayhouse, and took his place near the orchestra, at either end of whichwere steps leading up on to the stage. The evening sunlight penetratedinto the house through Venetian blinds, lighting up the fittings and theaudience with a sort of mystic haze. The sides of the stage werecrowded with gentlemen, some standing, others sitting on small stools.Many of the audience were standing, the rest seated on benches. Thepart occupied in modern theatres by the boxes was furnished with raisedseats, on which ladies and people of distinction were accommodated.There was no gallery.

  As the first bars of the overture struck upon Inglesant's ear, with along-drawn tremor of the bass viols and a shrill plaintive note of thetreble violins, an irresistible sense of loneliness and desolation and astrange awe crept over him and weighed down his spirits. As thefantastic music continued, in which gaiety and sadness were mysteriouslymingled, the reverberation seemed to excite each moment a clearerperception of those paths of intrigue and of danger in which he seemedto walk. The uneasy sentiment which accompanied, he knew not why, hisattachment to Lauretta, and the insidious friendship of the Cavaliere,the sense of insecurity which followed his footsteps in this land ofdark and sinful deeds, passed before his mind. It seemed to his excitedfancy at that moment that the end was drawing very near, and amid thefascination of the lovely music he seemed to await the note of thehuntsman's horn which would announce that the toils were set, and thatthe chase was up. From the kind of trance in which he stood he wasaroused by hearing a voice, distinct to his ear and perfectly audible,though apparently at some considerable distance, say--

  "Who is that man by the curtain, in black satin, with the Point deVenice lace?"

  And another voice, equally clear, answered, "His name is Inglesant, an
agent of the Society of the Gesu."

  Inglesant turned; but, amid the crowd of faces behind him, he coulddiscern nothing that indicated the speakers, nor did any one else seemto have noticed anything unusual. The next moment the music ceased, andwith a scream of laughter Harlequin bounded on the stage, followed byPantaleone in an eager and tottering step, and after them a wild rout offigures, of all orders and classes, who flitted across the stage amidthe applause of the people, and suddenly disappeared; while Harlequinand Pantaleone as suddenly reappearing, began a lively dialogue,accompanied by a quick movement of the violins. As Inglesant took hiseyes off the stage for a moment, they fell on the figure of a manstanding on the flight of steps at the farther end of the orchestra, whoregarded him with a fixed and scrutinizing gaze. It was a tall and darkman, whose expression would have been concealed from Inglesant but forthe fiery brilliancy of his eyes. Inglesant's glance met his as in adream, and remained fixed as though fascinated, at which the gaze of theother became, if possible, more intense, as though he too werespell-bound and unable to turn away. At this moment the dialogue on thestage ceased, and a girl advanced to the footlights with a song,accompanied by the band in an air adapted from the overture, andcontaining a repetition of the opening bars. The association of soundbroke the spell, and Inglesant turned his eyes upon the singer; when helooked again his strange examiner was gone.

  The girl who was singing was a Roman, reputed the best treble singerthen in Italy. The sun by this time was set, and the short twilightover. The theatre was sparsely lighted by candles, nearly the whole ofthe available light being concentrated upon the stage. This arrangementproduced striking effects of light and shade, more pleasing than are thebrilliantly lighted theatres of modern days. The figures on the stagecame forward into full and clear view, and faded again into obscurity ina mysterious way very favourable to romantic illusion, and thetheatrical arrangements were not seen too clearly. The house itself wasshadowy, and the audience unreal and unsubstantial; the whole scene worean aspect of glamour and romance wanting at the present day.

  When the girl's song was over there was a movement among the gentlemenon the stage, several coming down into the house. Inglesant tookadvantage of this, and went up on the stage, from which he might hope tosee something of the stranger who had been watching him so closely, ifhe were still in the theatre.

  Several of the actors who were waiting for their turn mingled with thegentlemen, talking to their acquaintance. The strange light thrown onthe centre of the stage in which two or three figures were standing, themultitude of dark forms in the surrounding shadow, the dim recesses ofthe theatre itself full of figures, the exquisite music, now soft andplaintive, anon gay and dance-like, then solemn and melancholy, formed asingular and attractive whole. Lauretta had declined to come thatnight, but Inglesant thought it was not improbable that the Cavalierewould be there, and he was curious to see whether he could detect him incompany with the mysterious stranger. From the moment that he had heardthe distant voice inquiring his name, the familiar idea had againoccurred to his mind that this could be none other than the murderer ofhis brother, of whom he was in search; but this thought had occurred sooften, and in connection with so many persons, that had it not been forthe fixed and peculiar glance with which the stranger had regarded him,he would have thought little of it. He was, however, unable todistinguish either of the persons of whom he was in search from thecrowd that filled the theatre; and his attention was so much diverted bythe constantly changing scene before him that he soon ceased to attemptto do so. At that moment the opening movement of the overture was againrepeated by the band, and was made the theme of an elaborate variation,in which the melancholy idea of the music was rendered in every varietyof shade by the plaintive violins. Every phase of sorrow, every form andsemblance of grief that Inglesant had ever known, seemed to floatthrough his mind, in sympathy with the sounds which, inarticulate to theear, possessed a power stronger than that of language to the mentalsense. The anticipation of coming evil naturally connected itself withthe person of Lauretta, and he seemed to see her lying dead before himupon the lighted stage, or standing in an attitude of grief, looking athim with wistful eyes. This last image was so strongly presented to hisimagination that it partook almost of the character of an apparition;and before it the crowded theatre, the gaily dressed forms upon thestage, the fantastic actors, seemed to fade, and alone on the desertedboards the figure of Lauretta, as he had last seen it, slight andgirl-like, yet of noble bearing, stood gazing at him with wild andapprehensive eyes. Curiously too, as his fancy dwelt upon this figure,it saw in her hand a sealed letter fastened with a peculiarly twistedcord.

  The burden of sorrow and of anticipated evil became at last too heavy tobe borne, and Inglesant left the theatre and returned to his lodgings.But here he could not rest. Though he had no reason to visit the Countthat night, and though it was scarcely seemly, indeed, that he should doso, yet, impelled by a restless discomfort which he sought to quiet, hewandered again into the streets, and found himself not unnaturallybefore the old nobleman's dwelling. Once here, the impulse was toostrong to be denied, and he knocked at the low sunken door. The houseseemed strangely quiet and deserted, and it was some time before an oldservant who belonged to the lower part of the establishment, devoted tothe sale of the wine, appeared at the wicket, and, on being assured whomit was who knocked at that unseasonable hour, opened the door.

  The house was empty, he averred. The family had suddenly departed,whither he knew not. If the signore was pleased to go upstairs, hebelieved he would find some letters for him left by the Cavaliere.

  Inglesant followed the old man, who carried a common brass lamp, whichcast an uncertain and flickering glare, the sense of evil growingstronger at every step he took. His guide led him into the room inwhich he had first seen Lauretta, which appeared bare and deserted, butshowed no sign of hasty departure. Upon a marble table inlaid withcoloured stones were two letters, both directed to Inglesant. The onewas from the Cavaliere, excusing their departure on the ground of suddenbusiness of the highest political importance, the other from Lauretta,written in a hasty trembling hand. It contained but a few lines--"thatshe was obliged to follow her father;" but Inglesant hesitated a momentbefore he broke the seal, for it was tied round with a curiously twistedcord of blue and yellow silk, as he had seen in the vision his fancy hadcreated.