She arose, and gasped for breath. She threw up the sash of the window; but the cool air, the distant lashing of the waves, the rising moon and the fine scene before her, had no power to calm, even for one moment, a heart torn by guilt and tortured by self-reproach. A knock at the door roused her from her meditations. It was the fair Italian boy, he had followed her; for, at a glance, he had penetrated her secret. With a smile of scorn he upbraided her for her weakness.—“What! in tears lady!” he said: “is it possible? can a marriage, a disappointment in love, overpower you thus!” Lady Margaret affecting a calmness, she could not feel, and opposing art to art, endeavoured to repel his taunting expressions. But he knew her thoughts: he saw at once through the smiles and assumed manners which blinded others; and at this moment he watched her countenance with malignant delight. It was the face of an Angel, distorted by the passions of a Dæmon; and he liked it not the less for the frailty it betrayed. It happened, however, that he had just attained the means of turning the tide of her resentment out of its present channel, and, by awakening her ambition—her ruling passion, of at once quenching the dying embers of every softer feeling. “You have read I perceive,” said he, “but one of the epistles with which you have been favoured; and I am already before hand with you in hearing news of far greater importance than the loss of a lover.”—The Duchess of Altamonte. “What of her?” “After a few hours illness,” continued Viviani, drawing one of the English papers from his pocket, “the Duchess of Altamonte is safely delivered of a son and heir.” The blood forsook Lady Margaret’s lips: “I am lost then!” she said: “the vengeance of Heaven has overtaken me! where shall I turn for succour? Is there none upon earth to whom I can apply for assistance? Will no one of all those who profess so much, assist me? Shall Dartford triumph, and my son be supplanted? Revenge—revenge me, and I will be your slave.”