Lorenzo spurred on his horse; and oh! what a tumult of wild feelings were in his heart; But there was one predominant. It was regret--almost remorse. He had spoken harshly, he thought--had acted harshly. She had felt it more than he believed she could or would, as her fainting on the previous night had shown. True, she had given abundant cause for harsh words, and even harsher acts than he had used. But the cause was forgotten in the thought of one so young, so beautiful, so full of happy life, being laid suddenly in the cold grave. A thousand times had he wished that he had never seen her; but, now that she was gone, he would have given his right hand to recall her to life. He reached the palace; he sprang from his horse and rushed in. He heard the confused tale of the servants, and he sprang up the stairs; but, as he went, his pace slackened. An awe came over him; and he trod the corridor as if his step could have awakened the dead. With a trembling hand he opened the door, and entered the chamber of death. There were lights at the head and at the feet of the corpse, with two of Eloise's maids--Giovanetta and another--seated one on either side. Late autumn flowers were strewed on the fair form of the poor girl, cut off in her young spring, and the painful odour of the death incense spread a sickly perfume through the room. Lorenzo approached with slow and silent tread, uncovered the face, and gazed at it for a moment. Then kneeling by the bedside, he took one of her marble-cold hands in his and pressed his lips upon it. A few tears fell upon the alabaster skin, and rising, he beckoned Giovanetta toward the adjoining room. At the door he paused, and said in a low voice-- "You may both retire; but be near at hand; I will watch beside her." "You, my lord!" exclaimed the girl. "I," answered Lorenzo: "Why not I? But mark me, lock the door. I will watch here, and when the priests return, say I will have nothing farther done till to-morrow. She must lie as she is now. There is something strange here, girl, on which I must be satisfied." "Ay, strange indeed," said Giovanetta. "Well, it must be unravelled before a grain of earth falls upon her," replied Lorenzo. "Now leave me; I cannot talk more to-night." "I must tell you my lady's last words," said the girl: "it was her command. In the agony of death, she cried, 'My husband! my husband! tell him I never sinned against him as he thought--tell him I have been faithful to him.' That is what she said." "Oh, God! Do not torture me!" cried Lorenzo, waving her away. The girl returned into the chamber of the dead, and whispered a few words to her companion. Then both rose and retired, locking the door behind them.