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 been predicted that he should on the self-same day commit so foul an attack on female honour and a twofold murder, would have deemed the thing absurd, nay, utterly impossible. So very closely do virtue and vice dwell in the human breast.

Such reflections probably darted across the mind of Camillo, when, throwing off the mantle in which he had muffled himself, he stepped to the head of the vessel. The golden orb of day was just rising from the dark bosom of the sea, filling the firmament with new glories. As the splendid purple, azure, saffron, and golden tints of morning gradually chased away the dun shades of night,—so the young soldier strove to remove the remembrance of his deed farther and farther into the back-ground of his soul. He was oppressed by the idea of standing thus alone in the region of returning light, which was already hailed by the feathered songsters, and gilded the peaceful habitations—as a guilty son of night, who had not thrust the sword with the rapidity of lightning into the breast of a fierce adversary, but secretly, more secretly than by poison or the poniard, murdered by a word two innocent persons. This idea had well nigh made his hair stand on end, when the assurance of the nobile, that a secret accusation was merely attended with reproof and warning, served to pacify him a little. “The tribunal will not