return to England; the same chase, and the same result. Palsambleu, ma
soeur, I do too much credit to your talents not to question your zeal.
In a word, have you been in earnest,--or have you not had some womanly
pleasure in amusing yourself and abusing my trust?"

"Giulio," answered Beatrice, sadly, "you know the influence you have
exercised over my character and my fate. Your reproaches are not just. I
made such inquiries as were in my power, and I have now cause to believe
that I know one who is possessed of this secret, and can guide us to
it."

"Ah, you do!" exclaimed the count. Beatrice did not heed the
exclamation, and hurried on.

"But grant that my heart shrunk from the task you imposed on me, would
it not have been natural? When I first came to England, you informed
me that your object in discovering the exiles was one which I could
honestly aid. You naturally wished first to know if the daughter lived;
if not, you were the heir. If she did, you assured me you desired to
effect, through my mediation, some liberal compromise with Alphonso, by
which you would have sought to obtain his restoration, provided he would
leave you for life in possession of the grant you hold from the crown.
While these were your objects, I did my best, ineffectual as it was, to
obtain the information required."

"And what made me lose so important, though so ineffectual an ally?"
asked the count, still smiling; but a gleam that belied the smile shot
from his eye.

"What! when you bade me receive and co-operate with the miserable
spies--the false Italians--whom you sent over, and seek to entangle this
poor exile, when found, in some rash correspondence to be revealed
to the court; when you sought to seduce the daughter of the Count of
Peschiera, the descendant of those who had ruled in Italy, into
the informer, the corrupter, and the traitress,--no, Giulio, then I
recoiled; and then, fearful of your own sway over me, I retreated into
France. I have answered you frankly."

The count removed his hands from the shoulder on which they had reclined
so cordially.

"And this," said he, "is your wisdom, and this your gratitude! You,
whose fortunes are bound up in mine; you, who subsist on my bounty; you,
who--"

"Hold," cried the marchesa, rising, and with a burst of emotion, as
if stung to the utmost, and breaking into revolt from the tyranny of
years,--"hold! Gratitude! bounty! Brother, brother! what, indeed, do I
owe to you? The