with his own hand, and when the place was finally reduced and surrender
inevitable, the noble assassin coolly gave up his arms, and then began
to trim his finger-nails with a small pair of scissors, which he took
from his pocket, as if nothing had happened. It is evident that, having
accomplished his revenge upon this woman who had sullied the name of his
family, he was now content to take whatever fate might come; and when he
was strangled in prison, by order of the republic of Venice, he went to
his fathers like a brave man, without a sigh or tremor.

The story of Violante di Cordona exhibits the same disregard for moral
law and the same calm acceptance of death. As the Duchess of Palliano
and wife of Don Giovanni Caraffa, this beautiful woman was much courted
at her palace in Naples, where she lived in a most sumptuous way with
crowds of courtiers and admirers about her. Through the jealousy of
Diana Brancaccio, one of her ladies in waiting, who is described as
"hot-tempered and tawny-haired," the fair duchess was doomed to a sad
fate, and all on account of the handsome Marcello Capecce, who had been
her most ardent suitor. In Mrs. Linton's words, "his love for Violante
was that half religious, half sensual passion which now writes sonnets
to my lady as a saint, and now makes love to her as a courtesan." But,
whatever his mode of procedure, Diana loved him, while he loved only
Violante, and he proved to be a masterful man. The duke was away in
exile on account of a disgraceful carouse which had ended in a street
fight, and Violante was spending the time, practically alone, in the
quiet little town of Gallese, which is halfway between Orvieto and Rome.
In this solitude, Violante and Marcello were finally surprised under
circumstances which made their guilt certain, and final confession was
obtained from Marcello after he had been arrested and subjected to
torture. Thereupon the duke sought him out in his prison, and stabbed
him and threw his body into the prison sewer. The pope, Paul IV., was
the duke's uncle; and upon being told what his nephew had done, he
showed no surprise, but asked significantly: "And what have they done
with the duchess?" Murder, under such circumstances, was considered
justifiable throughout all Italy--and it must be confessed that the
modern world knows something of this sentiment. On one occasion, a
Florentine court made this reply to a complaint which had been lodged
against a faithless wife