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 *ed and asked her, in Italian, to read a note Lord Glenarvon had sent her. It was written with a pencil, and contained but few words: it requested her to speak no more with the Count Gondimar. He saw the manner in which the paper was delivered, and guessed from whom it came. "I told you so," he cried. "Alas! shall I affect to offer you advice, when so many nearer and dearer friends are silent—shall I pretend to greater wisdom—greater penetration? Is it not inordinate vanity to hope, that any thing I can suggest will be of use?" "Speak," said Calantha; for the subject was interesting to her; "at all events I shall not be offended." "The serpent that is cherished in the bosom," said Gondimar, fiercely, "will bite with deadly venom—the flame that brightly dazzles the little wanton butterfly, will destroy it. The heart of a libertine is iron: it softens when heated with the fires of lust; but it is cold and hard in itself. The whirl