of the cabinet be revealed."

Thus terminated the manuscript.

* * * * *

Powerful in meaning and strong in expression as the English language may
be rendered by one who has the least experience in the proper
combination of words, yet it becomes totally inadequate to the task of
conveying an idea of those feelings--those harrowing emotions--those
horrifying sentiments, which were excited in the breasts of Francisco di
Riverola and the beautiful Flora by the revolution of the manuscript. At
first the document begat a deep and mournful interest, as it related the
interviews of the late count with Vitangela in the streets of Naples;
then amazement was engendered by the announcement of that lovely and
unhappy being's ignominious parentage--but a calmness was diffused
through the minds of Flora and Francisco, as if they had found a resting
place amidst the exciting incidents of the narrative when they reached
that part which mentioned the marriage.

Their feelings were, however, destined to be speedily and most painfully
wrung once more; and Francisco could scarcely restrain his
indignation--yes, his indignation even against the memory of his
deceased father--when he perused those injurious suspicions which were
recorded in reference to the honor of his mother. Though unable to
explain the mystery in which all that part of the narrative was
involved, yet he felt firmly convinced that his mother was innocent; and
he frequently interrupted himself in the perusal of the manuscript to
give utterance to passionate ejaculations expressive of that opinion.
But it was when the hideous tragedy rapidly developed itself, and the
history of the presence of two skeletons in the closet was detailed, it
was then that language became powerless to describe the mingled wrath
and disgust which Francisco felt, or to delineate the emotions of
boundless horror and wild amazement that were excited in the bosom of
Flora. In spasmodic shuddering did the young countess cling to her
husband when she had learned how fearfully accurate was the manner in
which the few lines of the manuscript which she had read many months
previously in Nisida's boudoir, fitted in the text, and how appalling
was the tale which the entire made. She was cruelly shocked, and her
heart bled for that fine young man whom she was so proud to call her
husband, but whom his late father had loathed to recognize as a son. And
Nisida--what were her