"How now, Cecco! a changeling?" cried the old Guelph; "thou wert wont to be one of us."

"That," rejoined the youth, "was before I was made to feel so wrapped up, so queer, so drunk-like by the songs of these Ghibellines. Cospetto! I could kill all the Guelphs while I am listening to those voices."

"Who would change for a song?" cried some Guelphs.

"Who could resist such music?" replied the Ghibellines. "It is as sweet as our church choirs which call our souls to heaven.

The Glee-singers extricated themselves from the group, which was becoming turbulent, and were about to pass on, when a small side door in the Palazzo Amidei opened; Buondelmonte appeared at it, and beckoned to the trio. They went up to him, but Brunetto placed himself in the shade, half turned away from the noble Guelph, with his broad-leafed hat flapped over his brow and his mantle muffled up round his face.

Buondelmonte accosted them in a low tone. "I know your repugnance to enter our dwellings; but I trust you will not, in courtesy, refuse to come into a private court of this palace, and speak with a person who earnestly desires it."

Valdo started, and said somewhat abruptly, "I consent." 66 And you? " said Buondelmonte interrogatively to Brunetto; but the latter turned away his head, and made a silent but significant gesture of refusal."

"Nay," said the young Florentine, "you cannot be so discourteous as to refuse a lady."

The words were electric; Brunetto darted away up the dark side of the street, and Valdo, exclaiming, "A lady! who? where?" rushed through the door, followed by Antonio and Buondelmonte.

They entered a private court enclosed by high walls, and darkened by ilex trees planted thickly round. One side of the court was formed by a dim and retired colonnade, at the further end of which was a flight of stone stairs leading to Amidea's oratory. The door above was soon opened, and Amidea, clinging to Padre Severino's arm, began to descend with him.

Antonio stepped aside under a dark arch, where he remained unnoticed; but Valdo, the moment he saw a priest and a female, rushed towards them, exclaiming-" Welcome once more! oh, welcome! if this holy father does but present thee to me penitent as the sinful and forgiven Magdalen.'

He checked himself as Amidea came nearer.

"But no; this figure is too tall for hers. Oh, noble Florentines," he continued, addressing himself to the padre and Amidea, who were silent from surprise; "oh, noble Florentines, where is she? and has she really desired to seek me?"

"Young man, you rave," replied the priest; "we know not of whom you speak."

"Pardon me, father," rejoined Valdo; "I am in search of one who is lost to me. When my presence was required here, I gladly believed that, by some happy chance, she was in this palace-that she had recognised my voice. In pity tell me, do I deceive myself?"

"Alas! my son, you do. We have only requested your presence here to ask after a person who might have been known to you formerly, as you and your comrades are Ghibellines."

Amidea here touched Buondelmonte's arm, and whispered to him, "Speak;" and he in compliance addressed Valdo.

66

I once before inquired, did you know the unfortunate Captain Florestan Bastiani ?

"And I cursed his name," interrupted Valdo, impetuously; "and I curse it again. I knew him as the betrayer of dedicated innocence."

Amidea shuddered, but, commanding herself, said, "Such is the common accusation against him, but he ever denied its truth. Perhaps he might have been less guilty than the world pronounced him; and that unhappy woman never appeared to substantiate the charge."

"Ay, that unhappy woman," said Valdo, musingly; "where did he hide her?-in the bowels of the earth? Lady, I think I know you, and I guess at the feeling that prompts your doubts. For your own peace-sake, believe me; believe my solemn assurance, Bastiani was guilty. I am a witness of his guilt, for I have been a victim by it; his crime has destroyed my happiness."

"How?" asked Buondelmonte, eagerly; "what connection had you with Bastiani?"

It

"Good signor, with your permission, that is my secret. may not comport with the success of a search in which I am engaged to tell you that."

"But why?" observed Buondelmonte.

"Need we believe

your bare word when you will give us no proof?"

"For that lady's sake I will give her a proof that I have reason to accuse Bastiani. Ma donna, a word with you alone. Believe it; be silent, and banish the memory of the unworthy."

He led Amidea aside with a courteous manner, and whispered to her a few words. She clasped her hands, and exclaimed aloud, "I can doubt no longer;" and, retiring to the padre, hung upon his arm in silent anguish; and Valdo, apparently impatient of further questions, saluted the group and hastily retired.

As soon as he had quitted the court Antonio came timidly forward.

"Lady," said he in a low apprehensive voice to Amidea, "hear me a moment."

Buondelmonte immediately recognised him, and said, "This is the melancholy boy, the treble singer."

Antonio approached Amidea, and caught hold of her mantle with a suppliant air. "Signora, pardon me in your goodness if I appear presumptuous; are not you the lady of the Amidei who he hesitated.

was once

"The betrothed of Captain Bastiani ?" interposed the priest. "It is the same."

"Then let me conjure you, give no longer heed to any suggestion of his possible innocence. I swear to you, on the solemn faith of a dying person, that he was guilty, and even of more than has ever been openly charged against him."

"And who are you," said Buondelmonte, "that ventures to load the dead with an additional burden of accusation ? "

"One that knew him too well," answered Antonio. "For that lady's sake I will tell you more than I ever thought to have told till my last hour. But promise-nay, swear, to keep my secret." The three Florentines gave their solemn promise.

"Know, then," said Antonio, "I am the best witness of Bastiani's guilt, for I was an accomplice in the flight of Rosara from the convent."

The priest uttered an exclamation of horror; Antonio continued:

"But I have suffered deeply, and my life is one unvarying penance. Lady, you deem it favourable to Bastiani's memory that his victim never appeared to attest his guilt. He guarded well against such danger."

"Alas!" cried Amidea, wringing her hands in an agony of feeling, "with what new crime do you charge the memory of that unhappy man?"

"With the murder of Rosara," replied Antonio, in a low but firm tone.

Amidea moaned, as if from a sudden wound; but Buondelmonte exclaimed, "Impossible! Florestan, the mild gentle Florestan a murderer! impossible! He might have been enamoured of a handsome nun; he might have carried her off in the impetuosity of passion; and in the court and camp are many who would have held that but a venial offence. But murder!--No, boy; this is too much for our credulity."

"It is true," persisted Antonio. "I saw when he laid murderous hands upon her in a lonely spot of the Apennines.” "You saw?" said Buondelmonte;

then you are an accomplice in murder. This must be looked to." And he drew close to Antonio, who trembled violently.

but an involuntary ab

"Not an accomplice," he said; "no! horrent spectator. Let me pass, signor. Fool that I was to have spoken."

But Buondelmonte still barred his egress, and Antonio, in excessive alarm, turned imploringly to each of the others.

“Oh, gentle lady, if woman's heart can pity the outcast; oh, holy priest, if the sincerest of penitents can ask compassion, let me pass; let me go free to my comrades, and forget the dreadful words I have uttered but for that lady's peace alone."

"Let him pass," said Amidea, shuddering and covering her face; "I have heard too much."

"Let him pass," said Padre Severino, "and let us be silent ever henceforth on these dreadful occurrences, for our poor Amidea's sake."

"Yet one word," said Buondelmonte to Antonio. "You have flung upon a soldier's grave a reproach which never lighted there before. If you wish us to believe, you tell us, at least, who you are."

"No," replied Antonio, firmly; "I will say no more were the rack before me."

Buondelmonte, naturally impetuous and chafed at the answer, laid his hand hurriedly on Antonio's collar, who now, in an agony of terror, screamed aloud for help.

Help was at hand. Valdo, who had been loitering without, looking for Antonio, heard his cry, and, dashing suddenly in at the door of the court, snatched the boy from the half-unconscious grasp of the young noble.

66

What, signor!" said he to Buondelmonte, "is this your courtesy to the weak and friendless? We will take care how we entrust ourselves with you again; " and instantly disappeared, carrying Antonio in his arms in a pitiable state of agitation, and leaving the three Florentines in a stupor of surprise, grief, and horror.

CHAPTER XII.

Though this be madness, yet there's method in it.

Hamlet.

When Brunetto darted away from Buondelmonte at the Palazzo Amidei, he hurried through the streets with the rapid motion of a steed rushing from some object that has startled him. When he reached the gate of the city it was closed; and, resolving to wait for his comrades, he sat down upon a broken pillar that lay on the ground close at hand. His thoughts were occupied by the required interview at the Palazzo Amidei, and he began to wonder at the delay of Valdo and Antonio.

"What can she have to say to them?" thought he. "What? unless to ask them of Florestan. Yet why should she preserve

one remembrance of him. Perhaps, with fond and credulous faith, she tries to believe that her heart was not given to one so unworthy as the world deems. But what could Valdo or Antonio. tell her? Nothing but common report; they could know nothing more; but I could have rooted her as spell-bound to the earth, while the night of the seven sleepers would have seemed too short for her questions. But here at length come my mysterious comrades."

And he rose to meet Valdo, who came at a quick pace, carrying Antonio in his arms. The boy drooped his head on the shoulder of his athletic friend, whose motions he did not in the least impede by the slight burden of his delicate and wasted form.

"What is the matter?" asked Brunetto. "Is Antonio ill?" "I fear so," replied Valdo. "Let us hasten to our retreat." "First let me relieve you of your charge," said Brunetto, taking the feeble boy in his arms.

They approached the gate, and craved permission to pass. They were now so well known in Florence, and held in such favour on account of their voices and their inoffensive demeanour, that they readily obtained egress; besides, the person in command was fortunately a Ghibelline. They passed

"Now let us onward," said Valdo, “and not delay ourselves with questions and answers."

And they hastened on in silence, interrupted only by the soothings addressed from time to time by the two young men to their drooping comrade.

They were well lighted on their solitary way by the moon, which shone with great splendour in a sky rendered clear by a slight autumnal frost. Their course now ran along a road bordered by lofty trees, whose branches, thinned of their leaves, admitted many a beam to glance upon a simple cross of wood, or a stone statue of the Virgin, as these objects peeped forth from some picturesque nook.

Now they emerged upon a wide and open plain, unbrokenly illuminated by the full moon, that seemed to sleep in the sky amid the incessant scintillations of the stars. At length their path wound around the ledge of a hill which commanded a varied landscape in all the soft indistinctness of distance, and the beautiful clear obscure of moonlight and shadow. A valley sprinkled with a few cottages, olive gardens, vineyards, pastures, and stubble fields in their late autumnal garb; the Arno winding silently away, clumps of the tall, straight Lombardy poplar, a small white chapel, the ruins of some ancient temple, and, far away, the towers of a monastery on the slope of a hill, just peeping above a black wood of pines; and, closing the prospect, the dark, gigantic Appennines.

The Glee-singers then began to descend the rough, brambly,