which way he took in the
corridor; and as I stood uncertain, a loud report of fire-arms crashed
on my ear. I flew to the sick chamber--servants stood gasping and
trembling without, I tore open the door; there, lay the Count upon the
floor, his head rent asunder by the bullets from the pistol his hand
still grasped. He had endeavoured to reach the bed, and fell half upon
a chair. In the bed lay the still warm corpse of the Countess, beautiful
as in life. I looked from one to the other; my seared and stony heart,
turned to apathy by the horrors I had witnessed, gave no relief to its
feeling in tears, and I spoke not as I slowly left the room.

For two days I spoke not to any one. A dreamy unconsciousness seemed to
wrap my faculties, and I felt not the time passing. On the third day I
rallied sufficiently to open the papers the Count had entrusted to me.
One contained an affectionate farewell to myself, from the Count, with
a dying bequest; the other, was in a lady's hand--it bore the Countess's
signature; and here I discovered with surprise and horror, that to
the performance of the rash act, by which the Count had terminated his
existence, he was bound by a solemn oath. I ready and re-read, to assure
myself of the fact. It was true! Such was the terrible promise she
extorted from the wretched lover, under the delusive hope of their
meeting in another and happier life. Then followed the directions for
the funeral, which were minute to a degree. The bodies of both, when
coffined, were to be placed in a small temple in the garden, near the
river; the key of which was to be sent to a Dominican monk, who lived in
an obscure part of the city. By him were the coffins to be closed, which
it was strictly enjoined should be done by him, alone and unaccompanied,
the night before the burial.

All was done as the wish of the deceased enjoined, and the key
despatched by a trusty servant of my own to the friar, who appeared to
be in expectation of it, and knew its import.

I sat in the lonely and desolate room, which had formerly been mine, in
the villa of the Count; that long and dreary night the wind poured its
mournful wailing through the pine-trees in dirgeful memory of him who
was no more. From the window of the temple a bright light gleamed
till near morning, when it gradually faded away. Thither I repaired at
day-break, with the household. All was still--the door lay open--the
coffins were closed and screwed down. The friar w