One night, four years after the last scene we have described in the astrologer's house, Volktman was sitting alone in his favourite room. Before him was a calculation on which the ink was scarcely dry. His face leant on his breast, and he seemed buried in thought. His health had been of late gradually declining; and it might be seen upon his worn brow and attenuated frame, that death was already preparing to withdraw the visionary from a world whose substantial enjoyments he had so sparingly tasted. Lucilla had been banished from his chamber during the day. She now knew that his occupation was over, and entered the room with his evening repast; that frugal meal, common with the Italians--the polenta (made of Indian corn), the bread and the fruits, which after the fashion of students he devoured unconsciously, and would not have remembered one hour after whether or not it had been tasted! "Sit thee down, child," said he to Lucilla, kindly;--"sit thee down." Lucilla obeyed, and took her seat upon the very stool on which she had been seated the last night on which the Englishman had seen her. "I have been thinking," said Volktman, as he placed his hand on his daughter's head, "that I shall soon leave thee; and I should like to see thee protected by another before my own departure." "Ah, father," said Lucilla, as the tears rushed to her eyes, "do not talk thus! indeed, indeed, you must not indulge in this perpetual gloom and seclusion of life. You promised to take me with you, some day this week, to the Vatican. Do let it be to-morrow; the weather has been so fine lately; and who knows how long it may last?" "True," said Volktman; "and to-morrow will not, I think, be unfavourable to our stirring abroad, for the moon will be of the same age as at my birth--an accident that thou wilt note, my child, to be especially auspicious towards any enterprise." The poor astrologer so rarely stirred from his home, that he did well to consider a walk of a mile or two in the light of an enterprise.--"I have wished," continued he, after a pause, "that I might see our English friend once more--that is, ere long. For, to tell thee the truth, Lucilla, certain events happening unto him do, strangely enough, occur about the same time as that in which events, equally boding, will befall thee. This coincidence it was which contributed to make me assume so warm an interest in the lot of a stranger. I would I might see him soon." Lucilla's beautiful breast heaved, and her face was covered with blushes: these were symptoms of a disorder that never occurred to the recluse. "Thou rememberest the foreigner?" asked Volktman, after a pause. "Yes," said Lucilla, half inaudibly. "I have not heard from him of late: I will make question concerning him ere the cock crow." "Nay my father!" said Lucilla, quickly: "not tonight: you want rest, your eyes are heavy."