There are times when the arrow quivers within us--in which all space seems too confined. Like the wounded hart, we could fly on for ever; there is a vague desire of escape--a yearning, almost insane, to get out from our own selves: the soul struggles to flee away, and take the wings of the morning. Impatiently, at last, did Maltravers throw open his window; it communicated with a balcony, built out to command the wide view which, from a certain height, that part of the park affords. He stepped into the balcony and bared his breast to the keen air. The uncomfortable and icy heavens looked down upon the hoar-rime that gathered over the grass, and the ghostly boughs of the deathlike trees. All things in the world without brought the thought of the grave, and the pause of being, and the withering up of beauty, closer and closer to his soul. In the palpable and griping winter, death itself seemed to wind around him its skeleton and joyless arms. And as thus he stood, and, wearied with contending against, passively yielded to, the bitter passions that wrung and gnawed his heart,--he heard not a sound at the door--nor the footsteps on the stairs--nor knew he that a visitor was in his room--till he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turning round, he beheld the white and livid countenance of Castruccio Cesarini. "It is a dreary night and a solemn hour, Maltravers," said the Italian, with a distorted smile--"a fitting night and time for my interview with you." "Away!" said Maltravers, in an impatient tone. "I am not at leisure for these mock heroics." "Ay, but you shall hear me to the end. I have watched your arrival--I have counted the hours in which you remained with her--I have followed you home. If you have human passions, humanity itself must be dried up within you, and the wild beast in his cavern is not more fearful to encounter. Thus, then, I seek and brave you. Be still. Has Florence revealed to you the name of him who belied you, and who betrayed herself to the death?" "Ha!" said Maltravers, growing very pale, and fixing his eyes on Cesarini, "you are not the man--my suspicions lighted elsewhere." "I am the man. Do thy worst." Scarce were the words uttered, when, with a fierce cry, Maltravers threw himself on the Italian;--he tore him from his footing--he grasped him in his arms as a child--he literally whirled him around and on high; and in that maddening paroxysm, it was, perhaps, but the balance of a feather, in the conflicting elements of revenge and reason, which withheld Maltravers from hurling the criminal from the fearful height on which they stood. The temptation passed--Cesarini leaned safe, unharmed, but half senseless with mingled rage and fear, against the wall.