ho would
not have died to save our country the misery of civil war--not one, not
one! Even women wore our flower, and were admitted associates of our
Order. We pledged ourselves that our aims were bloodless. No society
that ever existed was more harmless than ours. I say it! I swear it!
Bear me witness, oh, my God, if what I say be not true!"

He was a strong man again. The apathy was gone; his reason was saved. He
stood before this dark, tall girl, who, with clasped hands, was drinking
in every word, and he spoke with all the swelling dignity of one who has
suffered unjustly.

"By some means or other our society fell under the suspicion of the
government. The edict went forth that we should be broken up. We heard
the mandate with indignation. We were young and hot-blooded, and we were
conscious that we had done no harm--that we were innocent of the things
ascribed to us. We swore that we would carry on our society, but in
secret. Before then, everything had been open; we had had a recognized
meeting place, the public had attended our lectures, ladies had worn the
white hyacinth openly at receptions and balls. Now, all was changed. We
met in secret and under a ban. Still our aim was harmless. One clause
alone was added to our rules of a different character, and we all
subscribed to--'Vengeance upon traitors!' We swore it solemnly one to
the other--'Vengeance upon traitors!"

"Ah! if I had lived in those days I would have worn your flower at the
court of the king," she cried, with glowing cheeks.

He pressed her hand in silence, and continued.

"As time went on, and things grew still more unsettled in the country, a
species of inquisition was established. The eyes of the law were
everywhere. They fell upon us. One night ten of us were arrested as we
left our meeting place. We were all noble, and the families of my
companions were powerful. I was looked upon as the ringleader; and upon
me fell the most severe sentence. I was banished from Italian soil for
ten years, with the solemn warning that death would be my lot if I
ventured to return."

"It was atrocious!"

He held up his hand.

"Margharita, in those days I loved. Her name was Adrienne. She, too, was
an orphan, and although she was of noble birth, she was poor, as we
Marionis were poor also. She had a great gift; she was a singer; and,
sooner than be dependent upon her relatives, she had sung at concerts
and operas, until all Europe knew of her fame. When