If the name of love must be given alike to the noblest and most depraved of feelings, the young Viviani loved Lady Margaret with all the fervor of which his perverted heart was capable. She had made him the weak instrument of her arts; and knowing him too well, to place herself in his power, she had detained him near her, by all the varying stratagems of which she was mistress.—He now knelt before her, and, reading in her fierce countenance her dreadful wishes, “I will revenge thee,” he said, “yes it shall be done!” “Blood—blood is the price!” said Lady Margaret. “Seal the compact thus:—be mine but for one hour:—let me fancy myself blest—and: ....” “My son must be Duke of Altamonte,” returned Lady Margaret, deeply agitated.—“He shall.”—“Swear it, my loveliest, my youngest friend!”—“By the living God of Heaven, I swear it.”—“Ah! but your courage will fail at the moment: your heart, intrepid as I think it, will shudder, and misgive you.—Say where, and how, it can be done with safety.” “Leave that to me: keep your own counsel: I will do the rest.” He spoke, and left her. When they met again, the following day, not one word was uttered upon the dreadful subject of their former discourse: the compact between them was considered as made: and when once again the Count Viviani spoke of his passion, and his hopes, Lady Margaret reminded him of his vow; and a fearful silence ensued. Revenge and ambition had urged her to a determination, which a sentiment of prudence inclined her to retract. Viviani unconscious of her wavering resolution, enjoyed a momentary triumph. “Is not this extacy?” he exclaimed, as he viewed the woman he now considered as entirely bound to him. “Is it not rapture thus to love?” “Revenge is sweet,” she answered. “Will you give yourself to me Margaret? Shall I indeed press you to my burning heart! say—can you love?” “Aye, and hate too,” she replied, as, convulsed with agony, she shrunk from the caresses of her importunate admirer. From that hour he courted her with unremitting assiduity: he was the slave of every new caprice, which long indulgence of every selfish feeling could awaken. But the promised hour of his happiness was delayed; and his passion thus continually fed by hope, and yet disappointed, overcame in his bosom every feeling of humanity, till he no longer cherished a thought that did not tend to facilitate the immediate gratification of his wishes. CHAPTER V.