At an accelerated pace we pushed up the hill towards the house of Montecino, passing on our left the mouldering ruins of a castelletto, or little fortalice; the broken ramparts of which were almost hidden under heavy masses of dark green ivy and luxuriant weeds. Entering the bishop’s disordered mansion without ceremony, I halted the soldiers in the vestibule, and desired a servant, who appeared, to conduct me to her master. The woman vouchsafed me no other reply than a motion to follow her: she was very pale, and her eyes were red from recent weeping. Opening a door, she ushered me into a little darkened oratory; where, on a bier before the altar surrounded by tapers, shedding "a dim, religious light," lay the sad remains of the hapless Dianora. They were covered with a white shroud; and so completely, that I beheld not the frightful ravages committed by the knife of the assassin. Beside the body—his white vestments soiled with blood, his thin grey hairs dishevelled, his aspect wild and haggard—knelt Piero Montecino, the aged Bishop of Nicastro; his attenuated hands clasped and holding a crucifix, on which, at times, he bowed down his reverend head. His wonted spiritual resignation, priestly dignity, and stateliness of aspect were gone: his spirit was crushed and broken. How changed was his whole appearance since the day when, with Bianca, I stood before the altar in the church of his bishoprick! "O, Dianora! my daughter—my child!" he exclaimed, in accents of the deepest grief: "O, madonna, have mercy upon me! Holy Trinity, have mercy upon me! Dianora, my blessed one! Saint Euphemio, pray for her! Saint Magdalene, pray for her! Sweet lady of Burello!—beatified Rosalia!—thrice blessed lady of Loretto, mother of mercy! hear me, and pray for her!" Heavy sobs succeeded. The touching tones of his voice, and the passionate fervour of his devout appeals, deeply moved me. So intense was his sorrow, that it almost warranted the suspicion of a nearer relationship to Dianora than his vows and character as a Catholic churchman permitted; but no such ungenerous thought occurred to me then: my heart felt only the deepest and most sincere compassion for the bereaved old man. He was so besotted with woe, that I saw it was next to impossible to obtain from him the least intelligence or advice; and, withdrawing softly, I left the villa immediately. When descending the hill towards the spot where we had found the relics of our missing comrade, we met a peasant, who, with a long ox-goad, was urging a pair of lazy buffaloes towards Scylla. I desired my soldiers to bring him before me, in the desperate hope of obtaining some information concerning poor Lascelles; and, strange to say, we could not have had a luckier rencontre, or better intelligencer. "Hollo, Signor Campagnuolo!" said I to the cattle driver; "from whence have you come this morning—Fiumara, eh?" "No, Signor." "Where, then?"