It was not long after Lady Margaret’s arrival at the castle that Count Gondimar, who had accompanied her to Ireland, prepared to return to Italy. A few evenings before he quitted her, he sought the secret habitation of his friend Viviani who had likewise followed Lady Margaret to Ireland, but in order to facilitate his designs, had never openly appeared at the castle. “How strong must be the love,” said Gondimar, addressing him, “which can thus lead you to endure concealment, straits and difficulty! return with me: there are others as fair: your youthful heart pictures to yourself strange fancies; but in reality this woman is little worth you. I love her not, and it is but imagination, which thus deceives you.” “I will not leave her—I cannot go,” said Viviani impatiently: “one burning passion annihilates in my heart every other consideration. Ah! can it merit the name of passion, the phrenzy which rages within me! Gondimar, if I worshipped the splendid star, that flashed along my course, and dazzled me with its meteor blaze, even in Italian climes, imagine what she now appears to me, in these cold northern regions. I too can sometimes pause to think whether the sacrifice I have made is not too great. But I have drained the poisoned cup to the dregs. I have prest the burning firebrand to my heart, till it has consumed me—and come what may, now, I am resolved she shall be mine, though the price exacted were blood.” Gondimar shuddered. It was soon after this, that he returned to Italy. Before he departed, he once more in secret affectionately embraced his friend. “She has deceived me,” cried Viviani; “months have glided by in vain attempts to realize her depraved wish. She evades my suit. But the hour of success approaches:—to-morrow:——nay, perhaps, to-night.... If thou, Gondimar—oh! if thou couldst believe: yet wherefore should I betray myself, or shew, to living man, one thought belonging to the darkest of human hearts. This alone know—I dare do every thing; and I will possess her. See, she appears—that form of majesty—that brow of refulgent brightness. The very air I breathe speaks to me of her charms. What matters it to me, whilst I gaze entranced upon her, if the earth shake to its foundation, and rivers of blood were streaming around me!—Pity me, Gondimar.—Pardon me.—Farewell!”