however
attractive, must, for the present, be omitted.

My progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement afforded
me unspeakable pleasure. Having arrived near the last pages, I was able
to pursue, with little interruption, the thread of an eloquent
narration. The triumph of a leader of outlaws over the popular
enthusiasm of the Milanese and the claims of neighbouring potentates was
about to be depicted. The _Condottiero_ Sforza had taken refuge from his
enemies in a tomb, accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a Roman
fortress in the Apennines. He had sought this recess for the sake of
concealment, but found in it a treasure by which he would be enabled to
secure the wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that
followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the
enemies who were now in search of him.

My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the following leaves
being glued together at the edges. To dissever them without injury to
the written spaces was by no means easy. I proceeded to the task, not
without precipitation. The edges were torn away, and the leaves parted.

It may be thought that I took up the thread where it had been broken;
but no. The object that my eyes encountered, and which the cemented
leaves had so long concealed, was beyond the power of the most
capricious or lawless fancy to have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy
resemblance to the images with which my imagination was previously
occupied. I opened, and beheld--_a bank-note_!

To the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded, that the
remaining leaves, cemented together in the same manner, might enclose
similar bills. They were hastily separated, and the conjecture was
verified. My sensations at this discovery were of an inexplicable kind.
I gazed at the notes in silence. I moved my finger over them; held them
in different positions; read and reread the name of each sum, and the
signature; added them together, and repeated to myself--"_Twenty
thousand dollars!_ They are mine, and by such means!"

This sum would have redeemed the fallen fortunes of Welbeck. The dying
Lodi was unable to communicate all the contents of this inestimable
volume. He had divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety,
between this volume and his pocket-book. Death hasted upon him too
suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. Welbeck had placed the
book in his collection, purposing some t