ts, I solemnly charge you, Margharita.

"As to my search, it has not yet, alas, been successful. Think not that
I have lost heart, or that I am discouraged. Never fear but that I shall
find the man whom I seek--if not, there are others. I give myself one
month longer; at the end of that time, if Paschuli be not found, another
must serve my purpose.

"The Princess is much interested in you, and sends her love. She is
impatient to take you under her care. I have told her that it will not
be long--nor will it.

"Farewell, my child. Soon I shall send you the good news.--Yours,

"LEONARDO DI MARIONI."

CHAPTER XXIV

"WHITE HYACINTHS"

I am driven to what is either the vehicle for the sentimental vaporings
of a school girl, or the last resource of a desperate, friendless woman.
I am going to set down on blank paper the record of events here just in
the way they occur to me. I am going to enjoy the luxury of being honest
to myself. I need not say in which of the above states I am. That is
soon shown.

I would to God that I had died before I had come here; before I had
sought out my uncle, Count Marioni, and listened to the pitiful story of
his wrongs. I am pledged to a purpose so awful that I dare not think of
it. Day by day I am expecting the time to arrive for the accomplishment
of my hideous vow. God keep it back! Keep me innocent a little longer!

I write this in a weak moment. There are times when my uncle's wistful
eyes seem turned upon me, full of mute pleading, and the old spirit of
my race stirs up a great passion of hate in my heart. Then the thing
seems easy; I long for a weapon that I may end the struggle, and avenge
the man who looks to me to strike. Her gentle manners and kind words
have no influence. I am adamant. I look across the sea, and I see the
figure of a man, pale and lonely, languishing year by year in a Roman
prison. Then, indeed, my heart is hard and my hand is ready!

But there are other times, such as these, when I loathe myself and the
part I am playing; when an unutterable horror comes upon me, and I see
myself and my purpose in hideous, ghastly colors. It is such a mood that
has driven me to make use of this dumb confidant, that I may confess
what this thing is which has dawned upon me. My cheeks are stained with
shame as I write it. Never could it have passed my lips. Oh! my love, my
love, cursed am I that I love you!

He shall never know it! He thinks me cold and capricious