Appalled by her own vivid and fearful thoughts, she sat as if spell-bound, listening for other sounds, in an agony of suspense; but none other arose from the dark wooded dell than the murmur of the river, as its waters rolled on their way to the ocean. "Joy—joy—he comes at last!" she exclaimed, as the hoofs of a galloping horse rang on the narrow and rocky pathway, which wound between thickets of orange and citron trees up the mountain side. "Dear and blessed Lady of Burello, how I thank thee that he came not sooner! Three paters and three aves will I say.—I see him now: ’tis he! How bravely he reins up his roan English horse, with its high head and flowing mane! There is the dark cloak, and the little cap, beneath which his brown hair curls so crisply. Oh, well should I know him among a thousand!" With all the frankness and ardour of an Italian girl she rushed upon the terrace, and, waving her hand over the balustrade, said playfully, "You have come at last, Signor mio. Fi! I owe you a severe lecture: approach, and receive it penitently." At that moment, the horseman rode close to the wall of the terrace, and threw an arm around her. Overcome by her recent agitation, Dianora sank upon his breast, murmuring, in tender accents, "Oliver—dear Oliver." "The curses of the whole calendar upon thee and Oliver too! Ha! you greet not him contemptuously with an old scrap of Metastasio. Burning hell! traitress, I recall your biting taunts, and will revenge me even as Horazio did. Lo! the hand you pledged unto me shall yet be mine." A smothered cry burst from Dianora.—Instead of the handsome and flushed face of Oliver Lascelles, a livid and unearthly visage, distorted by the most vindictive passions, was close to her cheek; two ferocious eyes glared upon her, and the strong arm of Giosué was around her. "Never again wilt thou scorn a lover, Dianora Montecino; and dear will _that_ taunt cost thee which dictates my revenge." His long keen acciaro gleamed in the moonlight, as he grasped her beautiful hand with the grasp of a tiger—instantly the sharp knife descended upon the slender wrist! * * * * * Let me throw a veil over the horrors that ensued. The French sentinels on the windings of the lonely river, the wolf in the distant woods and the eagle on the rocks of Battaglia, must have been alike startled by the agonizing shrieks of Dianora. Fearful they were; but of short duration. A moan succeeded—a moan of terrible import. Then rang the hoofs of a horse as if spurred madly down the steep roadway. A turn of the dell hid the wild horseman, and then all became still. Her right hand severed at the wrist, her nose cut off, and her face seamed with the most frightful gashes, Dianora was found by the alarmed household of the bishop, stretched on the marble terrace, bleeding and senseless—mutilated—dying. She was borne away: convulsions succeeded, and that night the unhappy Dianora died.