He remained in this position for full an hour, not moving a single muscle, and more like a dead than a living thing. Then he arose suddenly, and paced the apartment with a vigorous and hasty step. His limbs were firm and his form athletic; it was his _head_ only that looked old. This also lasted some time, and then he sat down once more, and, unlocking a concealed drawer, drew forth a letter and a miniature. Upon the letter he gazed long and earnestly, his look assuming an expression of mingled terror and dejection piteous to behold. Laying down the picture with a sigh, he then opened the billet and began to read, his countenance becoming each moment more careworn and haggard. And it was not strange it should be so; for it is a mournful thing to look upon the letters that once told of the throbbing affection of some friend or loved one, when the friendship is dead or merged in a deeper feeling for another, or the love is banished forever from its chosen temple. To recall the words that dropped on the page; archangels proclaiming with trumpet notes that we were the idol of one beating heart at least; to bring up again our old smile, and find it gleams, and with no Promethean power, upon affection's corse. Ah me, 'tis sad, indeed! The reader muttered to himself ever and anon, but his words were disjointed and unintelligible. He sighed, too, frequently and deeply, and even groaned aloud as he read the following passage:-- "Oh, believe me, your highness, it is fate, and not my own will, that makes me seem ungrateful! The gratitude your priceless favor has engendered in my breast is so warm, so fervid, that _my life_ would be cheerfully given in requital; but when you ask _my heart_, alas! I can only say, I have it not to give. Years ago, ere I had seen your highness, or dreamed of the possibility of our ever meeting, Love had in my heart a Minerva birth, and, though the object of it lies in a bloody grave in a stranger's land, it will live in my own weary soul while it remains on earth, and accompany it when it flees to join him. You say, 'Perhaps I have not yet been fortunate enough to win your love or attract your regard but let me beseech you at least to receive and weigh the depth, the purity, the strength of my devotion against that of other men ere you decide.' Monseignor, you _compel_, even were _I not willing to accord_, my 'esteem;' my worthless 'regard,' and all the love my father and the dead do not claim, you also have; but were I to consent to your request, and become your wife, at his own altar should I send up a perjured vow to God." Carefully, he placed both letter and picture in the drawer from whence he had taken them; but, instead of locking it, drew forth another "billet." It was much shorter, a mere note, in fact, but seemed to contain matter as pregnant with agitation as its predecessor. He paused some time over the following postscript:--