your emperor the heart of
a man?"

"I know enough of our emperor," answered the prince, warmly, "to know
that, the moment these papers reach him, Peschiera is ruined, and your
friend is restored to his honours. You will live to see the daughter, to
whom you would have given a child's place at your hearth, the wealthiest
heiress of Italy,--the bride of some noble lover, with rank only below
the supremacy of kings!"

"Ah," said Harley, in a sharp accent, and turning very pale,--"ah, I
shall not see her that! I shall never visit Italy again!--never see her
more,--never, after she has once quitted this climate of cold iron cares
and formal duties! never, never!" He turned his head for a moment, and
then came with quick step to Leonard. "But you, O happy poet! No Ideal
can ever be lost to you. You are independent of real life. Would that I
were a poet!" He smiled sadly.

"You would not say so, perhaps, my dear Lord," answered Leonard,
with equal sadness, "if you knew how little what you call 'the Ideal'
replaces to a poet the loss of one affection in the genial human world.
Independent of real life! Alas! no. And I have here the confessions of
a true poet-soul, which I will entreat you to read at leisure; and when
you have read, say if you would still be a poet!"

He took forth Nora's manuscripts as he spoke.

"Place them yonder, in my escritoire, Leonard; I will read them later."

"Do so, and with heed; for to me there is much here that involves my own
life,--much that is still a mystery, and which I think you can unravel!"

"I!" exclaimed Harley; and he was moving towards the escritoire, in a
drawer of which Leonard had carefully deposited the papers, when once
more, but this time violently, the door was thrown open, and Giacomo
rushed into the room, accompanied by Lady Lansmere.

"Oh, my Lord, my Lord!" cried Giacomo, in Italian, "the signorina! the
signorina! Violante!"

"What of her? Mother, Mother! what of her? Speak, speak!"

"She has gone,--left our house!"

"Left! No, no!" cried Giacomo. "She must have been deceived or forced
away. The count! the count! Oh, my good Lord, save her, as you once
saved her father!"

"Hold!" cried Harley. "Give me your arm, Mother. A second such blow in
life is beyond the strength of man,--at least it is beyond mine. So, so!
I am better now! Thank you, Mother. Stand back, all of you! give me
air. So the count has triumphed, and Violante has fled with him! Explain
all,--I