The last lingering taper had disappeared from the windows of the palace, and the clock of the tower had struck the hour of three, when the figure of a man might have been descried, cautiously clambering over the wall which enclosed the ducal gardens. Passing rapidly through the ornamental parterre, he stopped beneath a window which opened upon the gardens, and threw a pebble against the lattice. The signal having been again repeated, the casement opened, and a female form advanced upon the balcony. “Is it thou, Ugolino?” demanded a voice, the silvery sweetness of whose tone was so clear and distinct, that it almost startled the count. “It is I, dearest Rosabelle,” he replied. “I have much to communicate with thee, and the night wanes fast. Throw down the rope, that I may ascend to thee, for the tidings I have to tell thee may brook no ears save thine, for whose only they are intended.” The Princess D’Este retired for a moment and returned, bearing a silken cord, one end of which she attached to the balcony, and threw the other to the count. Ugolino ascended, and the princess in a moment was in his embrace. “Quick, let us raise the robe, and close thy chamber carefully, for I have much to say and speedily.” With these words they entered the apartment. It was a lofty room, hung with tapestry of Arras, and sumptuously furnished, as became the rank of its mistress. Large and costly ottomans, oaken seats richly carved and ornamented with the armorial bearings of Brienne, large Venetian mirrors set in massive frames, and richly chiselled stands of colored marble, upon which heavy silver candelabra were placed, added to the magnificence of the apartment, which was lit by a swinging lamp of silver, from whence exhaled a delicate perfume. The count threw himself upon a pile of cushions, and covered his face with his hands. “Ugolino!” said the princess, passing her small white hand through the curled locks of the count, “why are you thus agitated? Are we discovered? Do the blood-hounds of my brother still pursue us? If so, impart thy griefs to her who adores thee, that she may, at least, participate in them, if she cannot console thee.” “I am come,” said the count, and a pang of agony shot across his noble features, “to prove myself a most foul traitor.” “Traitor!” said Rosabelle. “Ugolino! can the name of a traitor associate with thine?”