e
me, that until the scorn yield to a kinder sentiment, I will take no
advantage of the power I have gained over your fate."

"Power!" said Violante, haughtily. "You have ensnared me into this
house, you have gained the power of a day; but the power over my
fate,--no!"

"You mean that your friends have discovered your disappearance, and are
on your track. Fair one, I provide against your friends, and I defy all
the laws and police of England. The vessel that will bear you from these
shores waits in the river hard by. Beatrice, I warn you,--be still,
unhand me. In that vessel will be a priest who shall join our hands, but
not before you will recognize the truth, that she who flies with Giulio
Peschiera must become his wife or quit him as the disgrace of her House,
and the scorn of her sex."

"O villain! villain!" cried Beatrice.

"Peste, my sister, gentler words. You, too, would marry. I tell no tales
of you. Signorina, I grieve to threaten force. Give me your hand; we
must be gone."

Violante eluded the clasp that would have profaned her, and darting
across the room, opened the door, and closed it hastily behind her.
Beatrice clung firmly to the count to detain him from pursuit. But just
without the door, close, as if listening to what passed within, stood a
man wrapped from head to foot in a large boat cloak. The ray of the lamp
that beamed on the man glittered on the barrel of a pistol which he held
in his right hand.

"Hist!" whispered the man in English, and passing his arm round her; "in
this house you are in that ruffian's power; out of it, safe. Ah, I am by
your side,--I, Violante!"

The voice thrilled to Violante's heart. She started, looked up, but
nothing was seen of the man's face, what with the hat and cloak, save a
mass of raven curls, and a beard of the same hue.

The count now threw open the door, dragging after him his sister, who
still clung round him.

"Ha, that is well!" he cried to the man, in Italian. "Bear the lady
after me, gently; but if she attempt to cry out, why, force enough to
silence her, not more. As for you, Beatrice, traitress that you are, I
could strike you to the earth, but--No, this suffices." He caught
his sister in his arms as he spoke, and regardless of her cries and
struggles, sprang down the stairs.

The hall was crowded with fierce, swarthy men. The count turned to
one of them, and whispered; in an instant the marchesa was seized and
gagged. The count cast a look