“From childhood she has been the star I have worshiped,” he replied, and rising to a seat beside her, his arm encircled her delicate waist. “None other,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, as his eyes devoured the unfolding beauties which momentarily developed themselves, “none other shall claim the bride who has been reserved for me. If she will accept the homage of a heart that is all her own, my wedded wife she shall be before two suns have gilded the eastern sky.” The burning blushes were on Camilla’s cheeks, and the tears gushed from her eyes, but her breath came quick and her heart throbbed strangely. “Speak, dearest Camilla!” Buondlemonte whispered; “let me know from thy own lips that my passion is not unrequited—say that thou lovest me!” “Oh, Buondlemonte!” Camilla articulated, in a low voice, “think of Francesca—think of her family.” “To wed her would be a union on which nor heaven nor earth could smile,” he replied. “Dearest Camilla, Francesca loves me not, and I do not love her; her family are my aversion—there is no kindred, no sympathy between us. This night, if thou dost love me still, this night I will revoke the ill-advised bond that linked my destiny with Francesca Amedi’s, and to-morrow’s night shall see us happily wedded.” Small blame was it to Camilla that she yielded to the entreaties, nay, the commands of her mother, and the moving solicitations of her lover. Her heart, too, was an advocate against herself. For some time she resisted the persuasive music which was poured into her ear, but at length she breathed in whispered accents the words that united her fate to Buondlemonte’s. The rest of the evening, to the lovers, passed like the brief existence of a moment; yet its lapse had afforded an eternity of happiness. It had given birth to a world of pleasant recollections. Ere he slept that night, Buondlemonte dispatched his friend Guiseppo Leoni to Jacopa Amedi, to inform him of the step he had taken. Disclaiming all intention to offend, he pleaded his early passion in palliation of his apparent fickleness, and alleged that the uncongeniality between Francesca and himself could be prolific of naught but discord and unhappiness. CHAPTER VI. The dawn of the morrow found the Amedi family awake and stirring; and every member of it breathing deep and terrible vengeance against the faithless Buondlemonte. Late as it was when Guiseppo Leoni delivered the unpleasant communication of which he was the bearer, messengers had been dispatched to all the relatives of the house, to summon them to a council, which was fixed to meet at an early hour in the morning. When Francesca Amedi learned what had happened her towering form grew more erect, her dark eyes flashed forth unutterable thoughts, and, as she grasped tightly the jeweled dagger that hung from her girdle, she muttered between her set teeth—