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 did not prevent his hearing all the various rumours and gossip which emanated from it, or occasionally having it in his power unseen to watch his enamoured lord and the fair and false idol of his heart, who had once smiled as sweetly on him as she now did on her noble lover. He wrote to her; but Viola, amid the excitements and delight of her present life, threw the epistle aside, to be read at some leisure moment, and forgot it altogether. Serini waited first patiently, then impatiently for some answer; but receiving none, became exasperated by what appeared to him studied contempt, and believing Maria to be as much wronged as himself, he sought her, to breathe revenge on their betrayers. But he little knew the being he addressed; no particle of revenge lurked in that gentle bosom. Maria had become convinced that Viola and Nadasti were deeply attached to each other, and only prayed for their happiness. She used all her eloquence to dissuade Serini from attempting to disturb or injure either of them, and at length he feigned to be convinced and calmed; but not the less deadly was his hatred, not the less firm his determination to obtain vengeance.

The Count Harras, who regretted Maria’s determination chiefly on account of its robbing him of his noble son-in-law, was not a little delighted when Nadasti requested permission to transfer his addresses to Viola, and eagerly consented.

A magnificent fête was given in honour of the betrothal, and the handsome pair received the congratulations of all their friends. “My Viola! my bride!” exclaimed Nadasti, drawing her from the crowd into a quiet walk, and looking down with fond pride on the sweet face raised half bashfully, half lovingly, to meet his gaze. A sharp report of a pistol followed his words, and the ball whizzed closely past Viola. Instant search was made, and the assassin discovered and brought forward; but he disdained to reply to any questions, and stood with compressed bloodless lips, and his flashing eyes fiercely fixed on the shrinking bride. How unlike the animated, joyous Serini of old! “Away with him to a dungeon!” exclaimed the Count; “he shall not mar our festivities to-day, and to-morrow torture shall wring from him the cause of this cowardly attack.” Ere that to-morrow Serini had escaped from his cell; there was one in the fortress who pitied, though she had ceased to love him, and could not see him harmed. Vain was Nadasti’s rage, no one knew who had assisted the prisoner to escape; even Serini himself knew not the hand which unbolted his dungeon doors, and left him the means of flight. Suspicion fell on Maria, for several persons bore witness to the fact that he had had a private audience with her on the previous day, and there were not wanting voices to hint that, envious of her sister’s happiness, she had incited him to the murderous attempt; but no one ventured to breathe such a thought in Viola’s presence, for she knew too well that she had wrecked the happiness of that gentle sister, and strove by every fond token of affection to atone for her involuntary offence, and saw with remorse and regret the fading health of that so lately beautiful and happy being.

Maria, unconscious of the secret slander uttered against her, retired to a convent on the day after her sister’s betrothal, feeling it impossible to witness the happiness and affection of the lovers without betraying the anguish of her own heart, and thereby grieving them.

The wedding-day had now arrived. Throughout the whole of the previous night Viola’s rest was haunted by feverish dreams. Every scene in Walfrida’s hut recurred with all the vividness of reality; again she heard the wailing notes of that guitar, and saw the pale spectral boy die; again she gazed on the blood-stained jewel, and heard the warning—“Keep it from your husband’s sight, as you value your life and his love.” Then the air seemed peopled by thousands of diamond bodkins, each dimmed by the same crimson stain; and that sharp, agonizing pain, once felt, again pierced her bosom. Day had begun to dawn before sound sleep visited her exhausted frame, and then a shadowy, nun-like form bent over the bed, and an icy touch thrilled to her bones. Her cry of terror aroused her attendants, who, on entering the chamber, started to see a white form flit from the bed-side, and melt into the misty morning vapour which hung around. “It was Maria, my poor sister!” she exclaimed. “I have broken her heart! Send immediately to the convent to inquire after her, and entreat the Count Nadasti to postpone our nuptials until the messenger returns.” Her first command was complied with; but her impatient lover laughed at the idea of a spirit, insisted that all was a dream, and implored her not to delay his happiness. His eager, passionate entreaties, the voice of her own heart, and the commands of her father, overcame all her scruples, she plighted her faith to him; and as she received the priest’s and her father’s blessing, and her husband’s fond embrace, all the gloomy visions of the past night vanished even from memory, nor were they recalled until the return of the messenger from the convent on the following day, who brought word that Maria had died about the same hour her sister fancied that she had seen her. Viola was deeply affected, and the Count Harras much moved; even Nadasti felt that his happiness was clouded by this sad intelligence, and he spared no pains to soothe and console his weeping bride, and was strenuously aided in his endeavours by the wise and pious conversations of the good father Paul, the family priest, whose highly cultivated and religious mind enabled him to amuse, instruct, and edify his listeners.

“I have lately made a very interesting discovery,” he said to them one day. “I had frequently read, in the works of old writers, that