“Monster!” cried Da Vinci, confronting me face to face, and darting from his fine expressive eyes the most deadly hatred, “Monster! you are known! whatever obligations I may have formerly considered myself under to you, I now look upon them as entirely cancelled by your hypocrisy toward myself, and your base conduct toward your daughter. Know, hoary villain, that no later than to day, I received a letter from Don Ferdinand Ruzzina, warning me to be on my guard in any of my transactions with you. Nor was this all! He openly exposed your villainy, and revealed the unnatural and cruel schemes you have concerted for the disposal of your daughter’s honor. Behold, wretch, in _me_ her protector! You have forfeited the title, and by the God that made me, your baseness shall not triumph!” So struck was I at this change in the conduct of Da Vinci, that for several moments I stood transfixed to the spot. Still stupified with rage and shame, I staggered back, and flung myself on a bench. Valeria, with that filial affection, which I had never known her to violate, sprang toward me in an agony of remorse; and kneeling at my feet, earnestly avowed her determination to remain forever obedient to my will; and craved forgiveness for her instrumentality in causing me such shame and misery. Already goaded to desperation by the taunts of young Da Vinci, and the reproaches of my own conscience, I was not prepared for this act of unmerited constancy. In the bitterness of my own self-detestation, I rushed from the room, striking my temples with my clenched hands, and uttering imprecations on those who gave me life. I hastily mounted the ladder, leading to my miserable garret; and darting through the trap-door, threw myself head-long on the squalid and tattered pallet. Ruzzina had not forgotten me! Awed by the unconquerable virtue of my daughter, he had no desire to renew visits which he well knew were alike useless and unwelcome. But I had exacted large sums from him. He was my dupe! Even in _that_, there was a pleasure. Aye, such a pleasure as a miser can feel when avarice triumphs over conscience, and vice over virtue! Early on the following morning, I indited a note to Don Ferdinand, which, in the plenitude of my craft, I looked upon as relieving me from all claims whatever on his part. It ran thus: “If you have any intention of consummating your designs on my daughter’s virtue—a thing which I regard as a mere misnomer—you must do so immediately. The advance-money hitherto received from you, I consider fairly my own; and if you think proper to neglect the chance I now give you of achieving your wishes, I am sure it is your own fault. “Be so good as to let me have a definite answer, when it suits your convenience; and believe me, Catruccio Faliri.”