Seized by many powerful hands, the parent and child were torn asunder: the former was borne away, almost senseless, to a neighbouring monastery; happily for herself, the latter lay in a deep swoon. "Quick!" cried Bivona; "for Heaven’s sake! get this affair over as soon as possible." "Would monsignore wait till she recovers a little, to pray?" said Baptistello Varro, whom I now recognised as one of the troopers, and who alone seemed to recoil with disgust from the task imposed. "Ah! signor, permit her a little time to pray?" "No, no, Varro; that would be cruelty: we have not a moment to spare for tears and entreaties. Diavolo! if once she opens these blue eyes of hers, we may be bewitched: there is that in their glance—’tis the mal-occhio!—And you, gentlemen," he addressed us, "will do me the favour to remain where you are, or interfere at your peril." Gladly would we have resisted, to save this poor victim from those stern and unrelenting patriots; but, as our efforts would have been perfectly futile, and a serious compromise of our own safety, we were compelled to become spectators of the horrible scene which ensued—one, of which I willingly give but a hurried description. From one of the rafters of a covered verandah, or gallery, which projected on rough wooden columns round three sides of the court or quadrangle of the inn, Baptistello suspended a strong cord with a noose: two red torches, streaming in the night wind, were held aloft, and cast their fitful glare around. The picturesque façade of the old palace, with the rude alterations made by Da Fossi—its broad eaves, its gloomy galleries, vine-clad columns and gleaming casements; the motley group of wild-looking volunteers, with their Calabrian troop horses, and glancing buckles and weapons; the dark visages of those who bore the poor girl to the place of death; and the beautiful victim herself, with her pale cheek and paler bosom, and the dishevelled tresses of her long bright hair, which the old man loved to stroke, were illumined by the strong red light poured from the torches, whilst a dusky gloom enveloped the background: the whole scene would have formed a striking subject for the pencil of a Salvator Rosa. Revived by the cool night wind, the lips of Luisa were beginning to move: she sighed deeply. Ah! it was agony to contemplate that beautiful bosom, now throbbing almost for the last time!—She opened her eyes, but closed them instantly, as a torch close by flashed full upon her face; consciousness was just returning as the detestable cord was placed round her pure and slender throat. "Madonna—Madonna receive her!" exclaimed Castelermo, as he held his crucifix aloft to heaven. "Mother of mercy, look on her!—O, gran Dio!" he ejaculated, as she was tossed over the balcony.