In the meantime he held them in charge; and when they were delivered, one was missing. That one was sent back again to France some few months before the death of Charles VIII., and into the cover was slipped the scrap of paper containing those words in Leonora's own hand, "Oh! what a fool I was to cast away the first feelings of my heart without knowing better the man to whom I gave them!" Mardocchi laughed as he placed the writing close under the seal. Whether he saw the extent of the evil he was working, who can tell? Vague notions might flit before his imagination of dark ulterior consequences--of Ramiro d'Orco's seeking vengeance for the slight shown to his daughter--of Lorenzo's fiery spirit urging on a quarrel--of his own power to direct the dagger or the poison, though he had vowed to use neither with his own hand; but certain it is that no result could be too terrible for his desires. CHAPTER XXXVII. Two years had passed, and Leonora d'Orco had changed with everything around her. Alliances had been formed and broken; great commanders had won victories, and yielded to the stronger hand of Fate. Kings had descended from the proud pitch of power and betaken themselves to the humblest of beds; new combinations had been formed over the whole earth; enemies had become friends, friends enemies; love was burning soon to become cold; and there was coldness where the most ardent passion had once been felt. I must be pardoned if I pause in my simple tale to show how the strange transforming-rod of time had affected Leonora d'Orco. Anguish, disappointment, anger--yes, I may say anger--had produced for a time those results which mental excitement almost of any kind fails not to work on the human frame. When a whole year had elapsed without tidings or explanation from Lorenzo Visconti, her cheek might be seen to become paler and paler every day. Her limbs and form could not lose their grace, but they lost their beautiful contour. She became thin as well as pale; her bright eyes, too, lost somewhat of their lustre. She was still a young girl, and it was painful to see how her loveliness faded as her best hopes faded. She sought solitude; she avoided all society; she shunned especially that of men. Her father's was an exception. Parent and child seemed drawn closer together by the events which had inflicted a different kind of pain upon the heart of each. Often, after gazing at her for a while, cold, stern, remorseless Ramiro d'Orco would suddenly seek his cabinet, and, pressing his hands together till the fingers grew white, would utter but one word--"revenge!"