That same man had said that he never forgave--that he never forgot--that years might pass, circumstances change, the chain between the present and the past seem severed altogether, and yet the memory of an injury remain the only adamantine link unbroken. Lorenzo remembered the words even then, as they marched him through the cold, dark streets towards the citadel. He remembered, too, that by a fatal error Ramiro had been led to think he had slighted his alliance, destroyed his daughter's happiness, and treated her with scorn and neglect. And now every courtesy he had received since he came to Imola recurred to his memory as a menace which he should have heeded, every smile as a lure which should have been avoided. How could he suppose, he asked himself, that such a man as that would forget so great an injury? how could he believe that he would so hospitably receive the injurer without some dark and deadly purpose beneath the smooth exterior? Thought after thought, all painful, flashed through his brain. They were many--innumerable, and, ere he could give them any clear and definite order, the gates of the citadel were opened for his entrance, and a few minutes after, the low, damp dungeon of a murderer received him. They left him in solitude and in darkness to all the bitterness of thought; and then all that was to follow presented itself to his mind in full and terrible array--the trial; the death; the disgrace; the blighted name; the everlasting infamy. Oh! for the battle-field, the cannon's roar, the splintering lance, the grinding wound, the death of triumph and of glory! Vain wishes: the heavy iron door was there, barring from every active scene of life; but that was not all he had to suffer that night. To the felon's dungeon was to be added the felon's chains. The door opened, the torchlight flashed in; fetters were placed upon his hands and ankles, and the ring of the chain was fastened to a ring in the wall. The guard withdrew, but left the door ajar, and a narrow line of light marked the entrance. It grew fainter and fainter as the torches receded, and then a human figure, like a dark shadow, crossed the light as it became broader while some one entered. Could it be any one to bring him comfort? Oh no. The well-known voice of Ramiro d'Orco spoke in its cold, calm accents. "Young man," it said, "you should beware when you are well warned. My lord prefect, you have to die to-morrow. Make your peace with God, for there is no help for you on earth. You shall have a fair trial in our court, that all the world may know the proud Lorenzo Visconti has not been condemned unjustly, but is truly guilty of the murder of a poor defenceless woman--his own wife--and that history may record the fact among the famous deeds of the great house of Milan. The proofs admit of no doubt; so be prepared; and when the axe is about to fall, remember me and Leonora d'Orco.