Florence seized and rapidly read the fatal and garbled document: her brain was dizzy, her eyes clouded, her ears rang as with the sound of water, she was sick and giddy with emotion; but she read enough. This letter was written, then, in answer to Castruccio’s of last night; it avowed dislike of her character; it denied the sincerity of her love; it more than hinted the mercenary nature of his own feelings. Yes, even there, where she had garnered up her heart, she was not Florence, the lovely and beloved woman; but Florence, the wealthy and high-born heiress. The world which she had built upon the faith and heart of Maltravers crumbled away at her feet. The letter dropped from her hands; her whole form seemed to shrink and shrivel up; her teeth were set, and her cheek was as white as marble. “O God!” cried Cesarini, stung with remorse. “Speak to me, speak to me, Florence! I did wrong; forget that hateful letter! I have been false--false!” “Ah, false--say so again--no, no, I remember he told me--he, so wise, so deep a judge of human character, that he would be sponsor for your faith--, that your honour and heart were incorruptible. It is true; I thank you--you have saved me from a terrible fate.” “O, Lady Florence, dear--too dear--yet, would that--alas! she does not listen to me,” muttered Castruccio, as Florence, pressing her hands to her temples, walked wildly to and fro the room. At length she paused opposite to Cesarini, looked him full in the face, returned him the letter without a word, and pointed to the door. “No, no, do not bid me leave you yet,” said Cesarini, trembling with repentant emotion, yet half beside himself with jealous rage at her love for his rival. “My friend, go,” said Florence, in a tone of voice singularly subdued and soft. “Do not fear me; I have more pride in me than even affection; but there are certain struggles in a woman’s breast which she could never betray to any one--any one but a mother. God help me, I have none! Go; when next we meet, I shall be calm.” She held out her hand as she spoke, the Italian dropped on his knee, kissed it convulsively, and, fearful of trusting himself further, vanished from the room. He had not been long gone before Maltravers was seen riding through the street. As he threw himself from his horse, he looked up at the window, and kissed his hand at Lady Florence, who stood there watching his arrival, with feelings indeed far different from those he anticipated. He entered the room lightly and gaily. Florence stirred not to welcome him. He approached and took her hand; she withdrew it with a shudder. “Are you not well, Florence?” “I am well, for I have recovered.” “What do you mean? why do you turn from me?” Lady Florence fixed her eyes on him, eyes that literally blazed; her lip quivered with scorn.