There, sleeping in unsuspicious peace, lay the youthful Zerbellini, his cheeks blooming, his rich auburn hair flowing in clusters about his face, his arms thrown over his head with infantine and playful grace. “If he be guilty,” said Calantha, looking earnestly at him, “Great God, how much one may be deceived!” “How much one may be deceived!” said the Duke turning back and glancing his eye on the trembling form of his daughter. The necklace was produced: but a look of doubt was still seen on every countenance, and Lord Glenarvon, sternly approaching Gondimar, asked him whether some villain might not have placed it there, to screen himself and to ruin the boy? “I should be loath,” replied the Italian, with an affectation of humility, “very loath to imagine that such a wretch could exist.” A glance of bitter scorn, was the only reply vouchsafed. “We can see the boy, alone, in the morning,” said Sophia in a low whisper to Calantha; “there is more in this than we know of. Be calm; fear not, and to-morrow, we can with caution discover all.” “Do not talk of to-morrow,” replied Calantha angrily: “an hour, a moment is too long to bear injustice. I will plead with my father.” So saying, she followed him, urging him to hear her. “Consider the youth of the child,” she said, “even if guilty, remember he is but young.” “His youth but aggravates the crime,” said the Duke, haughtily repulsing her. “When the young can act basely, it shews that the heart’s core is black. Plead not for him: look to yourself, child,” he fiercely cried, and left her. The time was past when a prayer of Calantha’s was never breathed in vain; and struggling with a thousand strong emotions, she fled to her own room, and gave vent to the contending passions, by which she was so greatly agitated. That night, Lord Glenarvon slept not at the Castle. Zerbellini’s guilt was now considered as certain. The Duke himself awakening the child, asked him if he had taken the necklace. He coloured extremely; hid his face, and then acknowledged the offence. He was questioned respecting his motive; but he evaded, and would not answer. His doom was fixed. “I will take him from hence,” said Gondimar. “He must not remain here a single hour; but no severity shall be shewn to so youthful an offender.” It was at that dark still hour of the night, when spirits that are troubled wake, and calmer eyes are closed in sleep, that Lady Margaret and Count Gondimar, entering Zerbellini’s room, asked him if he were prepared. “For what?” exclaimed the boy, clasping his hands together. “_Oimè! eccelenza che vuoi!_ Save me,” he cried, appealing to Lady Margaret. “I will not, cannot go. Will no one pity me? Oh Gondimar! are these your promises—your kindnesses?” “Help me to bear him away,” said Gondimar to Lady Margaret. “If Glenarvon should hear us? and force was used to bear the struggling boy from the Castle?”