darkness was on the face of the sky, which seemed to come down and rest upon the amphitheatre of hills. The waters glimmered dimly; and nothing was visible but the outline of the mountains. All the inequalities of their declivities were lost in undistinguishable gloom. From all sides came faintly on the car the sound of distant waters; the wind rushed down the gullies in gathering and rolling blasts; but no voice of any living thing. was mingled with this howling of the wilderness. Monterosa looked up with steadfast gaze, and his hair was blown back from his temples. He knelt, and dipped his hands and forehead in the lake; and then stood up and stretched his arms abroad. "Spirits," he spoke at last," spirits of the earth and air, listen. to the voice of the fleshly being who hath power over you. If with patient and unshrinking search I have looked into the very essence of created things; if by long long vigils of penance and of suffering I have atoned for the frailness of my mortal nature, and have freed my soul from subjection to this body in which it is imprisoned; if by the intenseness of my lonely thoughts I have strengthened that which is within me above the strength of mere humanity; if ever I have heard your voices and seen your undistinguishable forms; if ever by fearful proof I have shown myself worthy to be the equal and the master of incorporeal beings;-spirits of the earth and air, I command you to. listen to my will. Seven days I have kept myself from earthly stain; seven nights I have watched in the wilderness for the hour of my dominion. I am pure, and the hour is come; spirits of the earth and air, I command you to listen to my will. Are ye walking in the earthquake or the storm? are ye travelling in the breath of the pestilence? I command you, by all my unutterable sufferings, by all my unimaginable thoughts; I command you by the conscious weakness of your own being; I command of Him who hath endued me with you by the power strength to struggle and to overcome; arise from earthquake, storm, and pestilence, and work in the heart of sinful man. And I charge thee, O thou lying spirit, whosoever thou art, that delightest most in the destruction of the souls of men, be thou present with him in bodily form; be thou his tempter here, and his tormentor for the ages of eternity."-Then a loud and wild and sudden blast swept down the windings of the vallies. Monterosa deemed, as it passed by, that he heard the shouts of unearthly laughter; and he rejoiced in the voice of the assenting fiends.

Muratone had wondered at the disappearance of Monterosa from Padua. He revolved in his mind all his mysterious predictions. He gazed down the glimmering vista which seemed to open into the darkness of futurity. He thought of all his own hopes and wishes and vague designs. Yet he recoiled from

the fearful return which was suggested by his ambition for the confidence and generosity of the Duke. But all these conflicting thoughts were swept away for a season by a new and sudden passion. Monterosa returned; but Muratone no longer sought to read his fortune in the stars; he read it only in "the eyes of feminie." On the tenth day after the departure of Agostino the halls of the palace were again thrown open to masques. There was the same display of grotesque magnificence as on the former evening; and the princes and princesses of all ages and all countries were mingled together in the same gorgeous confusion; but there was one of the guests who attracted the attention of the whole assembly. She was richly and strangely attired, but it was in a dress which marked no distinct character. She wore no masque; her face was known by none; yet never had any gazed upon a face or form so beautiful. She rose above the usual stature of women, but her figure was moulded with the most exquisite elegance. She moved with grace and majesty, or reclined in luxurious ease upon the swan-down couches. Her features were marked by the bold Roman outline, yet every lineament was delicate. Her complexion was tinged with the deep glowing hue of southern climates; her forehead was high and pale; and her long black clustering ringlets were confined by a simple coronet of pearl. Her finely-penciled brows arched over large dark melting eyes; and in her whole contour and aspect there was an expression of haughtiness and melancholy and voluptuous languor. The same expression breathed in the tones of her beautifully modulated voice. It was a voice which seemed familiar to the listener, yet he knew not where he had heard it but in the visions of boyish fancy. A ring of the noblest gallants of the court was soon formed around her. Some mixed in it for a few minutes, and then passed on in chase of the fleeting gaieties of the night. Others paused for a longer time, before they turned away to search for dearer objects among the disguises of the motley crowd. Some, when they were wearied with the bustle of the multitude, with song and dance, pageant and mummery, gibe and taunt and overflowing laughter, secret whispers and affected sighs, dropped in languidly, at last, to gaze in silence on this wonder of the evening. The circle deepened; but earliest and latest, and nearest the centre of the glittering ring, stood the Count Muratone. He had been fascinated at once by the beautiful stranger, though her face, when he first saw her, was averted from him. He had watched her gestures, and the slightest changes of her countenance, with a restless anxiety that thrilled through his whole frame. At first, when he caught the glance of her full and brilliant eye, it seemed to pass over him slowly and indif

ferently, as if it disdained to rest even upon the favourite and kinsman of princes. Disappointed and piqued he pressed. nearer to the enchantress, and a few haughty words of courtesy replied to his earnest accents. But soon her soft voice was mingled with his deep enthusiastic tones; a half reluctant melancholy smile played upon her lips; and her eyes were turned with more melting lustre upon the empassioned countenance of Muratone. The sound of music arose from the end of the long saloon, and their conversation subsided into a lower key, and at last sank nearly to a whisper. They listened, and spoke, and listened, and whispered again; and more and more closely Muratone bent over the siren, till he almost seemed to feel the warm glow of her neck and bosom breathing on his cheek. He sighed when the music ceased, and raised his head; but the lady, with a smile, took from the hand of one of her adorers, who was masqued as a minstrel, a small lute, richly inlaid with ivory and gold, and struck a few vague notes, till all around her were hushed in breathless silence. Then the air deepened into a low plaintive strain, and she poured forth a song of love and sorrow, in a voice that made every bosom throb and every eye glisten. As her delicate fingers trembled over the last dying notes, she raised her beautiful forehead; her upward-gazing eyes were closely overshadowed by her majestic brows; and every feature seemed instinct with deep thought and the enthusiasm of feeling. The rapture died gradually away from her countenance; and as she sank back upon the couch, her chaplet of pearls became unclasped, and her raven tresses fell in beautiful profusion over her snowy shoulders. Muratone stooped for the wreath; but the lady, smiling, flung back the ringlets with her little hands, and allowing them to flow unrestrained, placed the chaplet round her neck. She could not immediately fasten it. Muratone closed the clasp ;; and he trembled as he touched that fair and soft and rounded neck, and a delightful feeling seemed to press upon his heart and to suspend his breath. The Duke passed and spoke to him; and unwillingly he turned to his sovereign from her who was already the sovereign of his soul; and often, when the Duke's voice was sounding in his ears, Muratone's eyes were wandering down the indistinct perspective of the long saloon. When the company was beginning to disperse, he came back to the couch by which had been his station all the night; but the lady was gone.

The next day every one was eagerly inquiring about the beautiful stranger. It was soon found that the long untenanted palace of a decayed family was occupied by a noble lady. It was the lady who had appeared in such surpassing beauty at the masquerade; but little more was known of her. She was called

the Lady Fiammetta. It was whispered by some, that she was allied to the proudest of the Roman nobles, but that she had stained the purity of her blood, and was an outcast for ever from their race. Others asserted that she was the wife of Alessandro, Count of Girgenti, who had plotted with her paramour against her husband's life, and fled from his vengeance. And there were some who were content to believe that she was the celebrated courtezan, La Bella Bianchina, from whose silken fetters the young Prince of Naples had so lately extricated himself. But the spirit of conjecture was soon wearied; and all were content to acquiesce in the certainty that she lived in oriental luxury, that all the gallants of the court bowed before her shrine, but that her secret and accepted worshipper was the Count Muratone. Many had smiled at seeing how the Count was fascinated at the ducal palace. It was mentioned in mirth that he graced with his presence the banquets and revels of the Lady Fiammetta. It was whispered that, after the labours of the day, the minister unbent his mind, not in the society of a wife who was a stranger to his affections, but in the seductive conversation of his beautiful mistress. Those evenings were varied with music and song; he was more and more strongly attracted by her elegance and wit, and by her delicate taste and eloquent enthusiasm for all the finer arts; and, at last, his enslavement was completed by the burning and voluptuous passion with which she returned his love. The cares of state and the subtleties of intrigue were all forgotten; and when the white arms of Fiammetta were wound around him, and his head reposed upon her fluctuating bosom, he thought not for awhile of his own ambitious hopes or the tempting presages of Monterosa.

Muratone had received the hand of the Lady Isidora as a mark of honour from his sovereign; but he had never loved her, and the heart of Isidora was not given with her hand. Yet she had been a faithful, submissive, and even a tender wife; and she watched with grief the alienation of her husband. There was an admixture of pride in her jealousy, of indignation that a nameless stranger should be preferred to the daughter and sister of princes; but not one reproach or murmur escaped her gentle lips. The only arts that she used to win him back were the arts of meekness and kindness. They were used in vain. Day after day he became to her more careless, more cold, more harsh. He looked on the links which bound him to her as splendid fetters, and in the infatuation of his love for Fiammetta would willingly have broken them in pieces. To Fiammetta he devoted all his thoughts and all his hours. Even the councils of his sovereign were neglected; and the minister was seldom to be found but in the luxurious apartments of a courtezan. The Duke, young, proud, and impetuous, could not remain insensible to the indignities

thus offered to himself and to his sister.

From unreserved con

fidence and unhesitating acquiescence, his deportment to the Count became cold and haughty. Courtiers marked the tokens of his proud displeasure, and exulted in the approaching downfall of the favourite.

Muratone himself felt the change, and knew its cause; but not for earthly honour or power would he renounce the love of Fiammetta. He was bending over her, one arm clasping her waist and half buried in her flowing hair, imprinting burning kisses on her polished forehead, while she, with both her arms twined about his neck, looked up to him with eyes which melted his very soul. No, my beloved, my adored Fiammetta, never will I resign thy love. While thou smilest on me, of what value are the smiles of princes? I can see pomp and power, and all for which my life has been devoted, pass away without a struggle, but to thee and to thy love I will cling for ever. I shall fall from my all but princely eminence; the Duke will resume what he has given; but let him rob me of what he will, he shall not rob me of Fiammetta."-She unclasped her arms, and looked at him with haughty aspect." And why should Muratone, the proud, the aspiring, the commanding Muratone, bear his power and honours at the caprice of a sovereign, who was born, not to rule, but to be ruled? Thou sayest that thy eminence is all but princely; and why, Muratone, why should it not be princely?"-He started up, and paced up and down the room. "If the Duke forgets my services, I know not why I should remember his benefits." Again he traversed the apartment, and turned and gazed on Fiammetta, who stood at the full height of her majestic stature, her hair falling wildly back, and her eyes flashing with indignation.- -"Be thyself, Muratone; use thy power. Thou knowest that the soldiers are devoted to thee, and would be ready at thy word to pull down this Duke of masques and revels, and to place thee on the throne which thou hast so well deserved.”— This," exclaimed the Count, "this is the hour which Monterosa foretold so often. I know, Fiammetta, I know that my star is lord of the ascendant. Thou art my guiding angel; thou pointest out the path which shall lead me to the summit of empire. Farewell, farewell, my noble love," and then he pressed his burning lips to hers,- "thou shalt see me the sovereign of Padua, or thou shalt see me no more.

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The Count returned to his own palace, and with a hasty command to his domestics to assemble all his followers, shut himself in his private apartment. The vaulted ceiling, the gilding, and the tapestry, were scarcely distinguishable in the deepening gloom; but there the Count remained in solitude and darkness. He thought of Fiammetta, and all his delirious passion overflowed his soul; and he clasped his hands, and vowed, in the intensity