Old men hardened in the petrifying experience of the world, and men of iron souls created and fashioned for the sterner things of life, may be brought suddenly into the presence of such scenes, may even have personal interest in them, without feeling more than a vague general sense of disgust and horror at those who have produced them, and the sorrow which is natural to the human mind in seeing fair things blighted, either by gradual decay or sudden accident. But Lorenzo Visconti was not one of those. There was a certain degree of firmness--even perhaps sternness in his character, it is true; but he was full of emotions, and sensitive, and very young. There had dwelt his young bride when last he heard of her; there he had every reason to believe she had been dwelling peacefully within a few short hours. Is it wonderful that, besides all the terrible fears which rushed in an indistinct crowd through his head, a thousand wild thoughts should crowd upon his brain and seem to paralyse its functions. Where was she now? What had become of her? Had she been carried off by the baud of ruthless marauders he had seen below? Was she buried in those dreadful ruins? These and a thousand other fearful questions were flooding his mind like the waves of a sea stirred by a hurricane. All paused in awe-struck silence for a moment, and then Lorenzo struck his horse with the spur, and dashed on up the terrace even among the still hot fragments. "Ho! is there any one here?" he cried--"is there any one here? For the love of God, answer if there be! Ride round to the back, Antonio. Parisot, take that other way to the left. See if you can find any to answer. But be quick--be quick! there is no time to spare." "But what would you do, my lord?" asked Antonio, in a sad tone. "Pursue the villains to the gates of hell!" cried Lorenzo. "I will, I tell you! quick!" More than once Lorenzo repeated the shout, "Ho! is there any one there?" while the men were absent, and sometimes he would think of sending some of the men down to a small peasant-house he saw about half a mile below, and then he would remember that he might need them all at a moment's notice; and often would he mutter words to himself, such as "They dare not resist a French pennon. What if they do? Then die. Better to die a thousand times than live to think of her in their hands." The few minutes the men were absent passed thus as if in a dream; but at length Antonio re-appeared, bringing a man with him pressed tightly by the arm. It was a peasant of the middle age, who seemed somewhat unwilling to come where he was led, and was evidently afraid; but, if one might judge from the expression of his face, the dull, heavy look of despair, there was sorrow mingled with his fear. "You need not hold me so hard, signor," he said, in the rich but somewhat rough Tuscan tongue; "I will come. I only ran from you because I thought you were a party of the band."