would you still reject the
rank and the wealth and the hand of Giulio Franzini?"

"Oh, yes, yes; were his hand a king's!"

"Still, then, as woman to woman--both, as you say, akin, and sprung from
the same lineage--still, then, answer me, answer me, for you speak to
one who has loved--Is it not that you love another? Speak."

"I do not know. Nay, not love,--it was a romance; it is a thing
impossible. Do not question,--I cannot answer." And the broken words
were choked by sudden tears.

Beatrice's face grew hard and pitiless. Again she lowered her veil, and
withdrew her hand from the check-string; but the coachman had felt the
touch, and halted. "Drive on," said Beatrice, "as you were directed."

Both were now long silent,--Violante with great difficulty recovering
from her emotion, Beatrice breathing hard, and her arms folded firmly
across her breast.

Meanwhile the carriage had entered London; it passed the quarter in
which Madame di Negra's house was situated; it rolled fast over a
bridge; it whirled through a broad thoroughfare, then through defiles of
lanes, with tall blank dreary houses on either side. On it went, and
on, till Violante suddenly took alarm. "Do you live so far?" she said,
drawing up the blind, and gazing in dismay on the strange, ignoble
suburb. "I shall be missed already. Oh, let us turn back, I beseech
you!"

"We are nearly there now. The driver has taken this road in order to
avoid those streets in which we might have been seen together,--perhaps
by my brother himself. Listen to me, and talk of-of the lover whom
you rightly associate with a vain romance. 'Impossible,'--yes, it is
impossible!"

Violante clasped her hands before her eyes, and bowed down her head.
"Why are you so cruel?" said she. "This is not what you promised. How
are you to serve my father, how restore him to his country? This is what
you promised!"

"If you consent to one sacrifice, I will fulfil that promise. We are
arrived."

The carriage stopped before a tall, dull house, divided from other
houses by a high wall that appeared to enclose a yard, and standing
at the end of a narrow lane, which was bounded on the one side by the
Thames. In that quarter the river was crowded with gloomy, dark-looking
vessels and craft, all lying lifeless under the wintry sky.

The driver dismounted and rang the bell. Two swarthy Italian faces
presented themselves at the threshold. Beatrice descended lightly, and
gave her hand to Vio