Such was the state of things, when Viviani, having by fraud again possessed himself of Zerbellini, sought Lady Margaret, and found her a few moments after the duke had left the castle. He well knew whither he was gone; he well knew also, that it was now too late to recall the vengeance he had decreed; yet one hope for Lady Margaret and himself remained:—would she fly with him upon that hour. _All_ was prepared for flight in case he needed it; and with her, what perils would he not encounter. He entered the castle, much disguised: he made her the proposal; but she received it with disdain. One thing alone she wished to know; and that she solemnly enjoined him to confess to her: was Zerbellini the real heir of Delaval?—was she guiltless of the murder of her brother’s child? “You shall see him, speak with him,” said Viviani, “if you will follow me as soon as the night is dark. I will conduct you to him, and your own eyes and ears shall be convinced.” So saying, he left her to fill the horrors of her own black imagination; but, returning at the time appointed, he led her to the wood, telling her that the boy was concealed in an apartment of the turret, close to the chapel. Suddenly pausing, as he followed the path:—“This is the very tree,” he cried, turning round, and looking upon her fiercely; “yes, this is the spot upon which La Crusca shed the blood of an innocent for you.” “Then the boy was really and inhumanly murdered,” said Lady Margaret, pale with horror at the thought, but still unappalled for herself. “Yes, lady, and his blood be on your soul! Do you hope for mercy?” he cried, seizing her by the arm. “Not from you.” “Dare you appeal to heaven?” She would not answer. “I must embrace thee here, lady, before we for ever part.” “Monster!” said Lady Margaret, seizing the dagger in his hand, as he placed his arm around her neck. “I have already resolved that I will never survive public infamy; therefore I fear you not; neither will I endure your menaces, nor your insulting and barbarous caresses. Trifle not with one who knows herself above you—who defies and derides your power. I dare to die.” And she gazed unawed at his closely locked fist. “Stab here—stab to this heart, which, however lost and perverted, yet exists to execrate thy crimes, and to lament its own.” “Die then—thus—thus,” said her enraged, her inhuman lover, as he struck the dagger, without daring to look where his too certain hand had plunged it. Lady Margaret shrunk not from the blow; but fixing her dying eyes reproachfully upon him, closed them not, even when the spirit of life was gone.