ce; you can force her back to
your palace, to its meanest work; but"--

"Have mercy on me!" cried Leon.

"But," continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly, "you cannot force me to
love you."

"Do not mock--do not torture me more; you are sufficiently revenged.
I will not offend you by importunity. You must indeed hate me! But
remember that we Poles wished to give freedom to our serfs; and for
that very reason our country was invaded and dismembered by despotic
powers. We must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it exists in
Russia; but, soul and body, we are averse to it; and when our country
once more becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will remain in
the land. Curse then our enemies, and pity us that we stand in such
a desperate position between Russian bayonets and Siberia, and the
hatred of our serfs."

So saying, and without waiting for a reply, Leon rushed from the room.
The door was closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds of his rapid
footsteps till they died in the street. She would have followed, but
dared not. She ran to the window. Roszynski's carriage was rolling
rapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, "I love you, Leon; I loved you
always!"

Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve them she hastened to her
desk, and wrote these words:

"Dearest Leon, forgive me; let the past be forever forgotten. Return
to your Anielka. She always has been, ever will be, yours!"

She dispatched the missive. Was it too late, or would it bring him
back? In the latter hope she retired to her chamber, to execute a
little project.

Leon was in despair. He saw he had been premature in so soon declaring
his passion after the news of his wife's death, and vowed he would
not see Anielka again for several months. To calm his agitation, he
had ridden some miles into the country. When he returned to his hotel
after some hours, he found her note. With the wild delight it had
darted into his soul, he flew back to her.

On regaining her saloon a new and terrible vicissitude seemed
to sport with his passion--she was nowhere to be seen. Had the
Italian cantatrice fled? Again he was in despair-stupefied with
disappointment. As he stood uncertain how to act, in the midst of
the floor, he heard, as from a distance, an Ave Maria poured forth
in tones he half recognized. The sounds brought back to him a host
of recollections: a weeping serf--the garden of his own palace. In a
state of new rapture he followed the voice. He