It was so beautiful as a whole, and so exquisitely finished in all its details, that Pierre clenched his fingers till the nails cut him, so hard did he try to conceal the bitterness of his disappointment at his own manifest inferiority. Could he have been an hour alone, all would have been well. But, as he stepped out on the piazza, followed by Florien, he saw him kiss his hand triumphantly to Rosabella, and she returned it with a modest but expressive glance. Unfortunately, he held in his hand a jewelled dagger, of Turkish workmanship, which Antoine Breguet had asked him to return to its case in the workshop. Stung with disappointed love and ambition, the tempestuous feelings so painfully restrained burst forth like a whirlwhind. Quick as a flash of lightning, he made a thrust at his graceful rival. Then frightened at what he had done, and full of horror at thoughts of Rosabella’s distress, he rushed into the road, and up the sides of the mountain, like a madman. * * * * * A year passed, and no one heard tidings of him. On the anniversary of Rosabella’s birth, the aged grandsire sat alone, sunning his white locks at the open window, when Pierre Barthoud entered, pale and haggard. He was such a skeleton of his former self that his master did not recognize him, till he knelt at his feet, and said, “Forgive me, father. I am Pierre.” The poor old man shook violently, and covered his face with trembling hands. “Ah, thou wretched one,” said he, “how darest thou come hither, with murder on thy soul?” “Murder?” exclaimed Pierre, in a voice so terribly deep and distinct, that it seemed to freeze the feeble blood of him who listened. “Is he then dead? Did I kill the beautiful youth, whom I loved so much?” He fell forward on the floor, and the groan that came from his strong chest was like an earthquake tearing up trees by the roots. Antoine Breguet was deeply moved, and the tears flowed fast over his furrowed face. “Rise, my son,” said he, “and make thy escape, lest they come to arrest thee.” “Let them come,” replied Pierre, gloomily; “Why should I live?” Then raising his head from the floor, he said slowly, and with great fear, “Father, where is Rosabella?” The old man covered his face, and sobbed out, “I shall never see her again! These old eyes will never again look on her blessed face.” Many minutes they remained thus, and when he repeated, “I shall never see her again!” the young man clasped his feet convulsively, and groaned in agony.