iped, who, with her fair arms
wreathed a welcome of love about him. They pass within; a bright face
offers itself for a kiss; fondly he stoops, but the dream
vanishes;--in the breaking of the morn he stands alone;--hope dead
within his breast.

CHAPTER XIII.

AT "THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD."

Winter waited long for his servant's return. He walked restlessly up
and down the chamber, ever and anon pausing, either for recourse to
the flagon on the table, or to draw aside the curtains and gaze out
upon the street. At last, sinking into a chair with a muttered curse
at the long delay, he fell into deep sleep, overcome by the wine in
which he had so freely indulged. Dawn broke gray and cheerless. The
first rays of the sun penetrated into the chamber and fell upon the
sleeper,--his position was unchanged since the small hours of the
night. Gradually, as the light increased, he stirred uneasily, awoke,
and rubbing his eyes, looked about as though not sure of the
surroundings. His eye rested upon the flagon, then slowly traveled
toward the window. The recollection of the last night, however,
flashed before him, and springing from the chair, he dashed out into
the corridor.

"Richard!" he called. No answer followed his summons.

"Richard," he repeated, in a still louder tone. The only response was
the echo of his own voice.

"What mad business be this?" exclaimed he, retracing his steps and
looking wildly about the apartment. "By this cursed drink have I
brought ruin to our hopes and cause. Out upon thee," he cried in a
transport of passion, suddenly seizing the flagon, and flinging it
with all his might across the room. The heavy piece of metal struck
the wall, sending out a deluge of wine, and falling with a crash,
shattered into fragments an ivory crucifix resting upon a small table.
Winter stood aghast at the havoc wrought.

"An omen," he whispered, white to the lips, glancing about with
frightened looks, then kneeling to take up the broken cross.

"See," he cried, holding with trembling fingers the image of the
crucified Savior which had escaped the wreck, and now dripped with
wine;--"Christ's wounds do open their red mouths and bleed afresh at
my awful deeds." The man arose, crossed himself, and thrust the image
into his doublet, then wiping the sweat from his brow sank into a
chair.

"'Tis not by these tremblings, or vain regrets, that I may fortify
myself, or mend what's done," he exclaimed. "I must beth