“Albert,” he continued, “let me be the first to address thee by that name, canst thou forgive, say, canst thou forgive me?” “I know as yet but imperfectly,” said the boy, “what your conduct to me has been. At times I have trusted you as a friend, and considered you as a master.” “This is no time, my dear boy, for explanations—are you prepared? At least, embrace the wretch who has betrayed you. Let these tainted and polluted lips impress one last fond kiss upon thy cheek of rose, fair opening blossom, whose young heart, spotless as that of cherubims on high, has early felt the pressure of calamity. Smile yet once on me, even as in sleep I saw thee smile, when, cradled in princely luxury, the world before thee, I hurled thee from the vanities of life, and saved thy soul. Boy of my fondest interest, come to my heart, and with thy angel purity snatch the fell murderer from perdition. Then, when we sleep thus clasped together, in the bands of death, ascend, fair and unpolluted soul, ascend in white-robed innocence to Heaven, and ask for mercy of thy God for me!” “Wretch!” cried the duke, rushing forward:—but in vain his haste. With the strength of desperate guilt, the Italian had grasped the boy, and bearing him in sudden haste to the edge of the frightful chasm, he was on the point of throwing himself and the child from the top of it, when the duke, with a strong grasp, seizing him by the cloak, forcibly detained him.—“Wretch,” he cried, “live to feel a father’s vengeance!—live to——” “To restore your son,” said Glenarvon, with a hypocritical smile, turning round and gazing on the duke. “Ha, whom do I behold! no Italian, no Viviani, but Glenarvon.” “Yes, and to me, to me alone, you owe the safety of your child. Your sister decreed his death—I sav’d him. Now strike this bosom if you will.”—“What are you? Who are you?” said the duke. “Is it now alone that you know Glenarvon?” he replied with a sneer. “I suspected this; but that name shall not save you.”—“Nothing can save me,” said Glenarvon, mournfully. “All hell is raging in my bosom. My brain is on fire. _You_ cannot add to my calamities.” “Why a second time attempt the life of my child?” “Despair prompted me to the deed,” said Glenarvon, putting his hand to his head: “all is not right here—madness has fallen on me.” “Live, miserable sinner,” said the duke, looking upon him with contempt: “you are too base to die—I dare not raise my arm against you.” “Yet I am defenceless,” said Glenarvon, with a bitter smile, throwing the dagger to the ground. “Depart for ever from me,” said the duke—“your presence here is terrible to all.”