“Adolf,” he said, “thy father is about to leave thee—dear object of my fond affection, thou art all that remains of my beloved Zillia—boy,” he continued exerting the last remains of strength, “thou must go hence. The moment thy father ceases to breathe thou must fly.” The child looked on his parent with alarm, and sorrow depicted in his young face. “Yes,” he repeated, “thou must quit this place. My enemies are on the alert. Me they would certainly destroy, and thy youth and innocence—will hardly save thee from their wrath. Long have they watched, and sought, and hunted me, from country to country, and from town to town. I have mingled in the crowd of cities, and hoped to be confounded with the multitude—to pass unmarked—unquestioned—unknown—in vain; the ever wakeful eye of suspicion followed me—danger dogged my footsteps. I sought the shelter of thick woods—of impenetrable forests, where the wolf howled, and the raven croaked—but the foot of my persecutor—Man—seldom came. Even there I was discovered. Imprisonment—famine—torture have been my portion—and yet I live. I live—but thy gentle spirit, Zillia, could not bear up under the pressure of so many woes. Adolf, thou wilt shortly be all that survives of the family of Zampieri.—I repeat, by the morning dawn _I_ shall be no more, and _thou_ must fly.” “No, no,” returned the boy, “urge me not to depart—father, I will remain and share thy fate.” He threw himself as he spoke upon the bosom of the old man who pressed him in his feeble arms.—“And oh! father, I _cannot_ go hence—I am weak—I am ill—father I die of hunger.” An expression of keen anguish passed over the face of Zampieri, and he pushed his child from him. “Boy,” he cried, “ask me not for bread—thou knowest I have it not. Have I not been laboring for thee—for thy wealth—for thy aggrandizement—ingrate—bread sayest thou—thou shalt have gold, boy, gold.” The intellect of the adept wandered, and he laughed wildly. The large, soft, lustrous eyes of Adolf swam in tears, and his heart trembled within his bosom. With weak steps he retreated to the foot of the bed, and kneeling there, hid his face on his folded arms, and wept. After a pause Zampieri again spoke. “Life!” he muttered, “how have I wasted thee. Time! Thou art no longer mine. Would that I could redeem thee—but it is too late. Zillia, my murdered love! Thou art avenged. I left thy fond and simple affections for the depths of mysterious research. I madly thought to realise the dreams of illimitable wealth. Vain and destructive ambition. For thy sake have I riven asunder every tie.” The voice of the old man ceased, and the sobs of the child too were silenced—perchance in sleep. The violence of the tempest had subsided, and all was still; save that the blast still shrieked at intervals by, making the old casements rattle as it passed—and the thunder muttered low at a distance.