With a fear too deep for expression the prince watched his lovely idol as she lay trembling within his encircling arm. Her face was of a ghastly pallor, and her eyes were fixed with an absolutely vacant look on the opposite side of the carriage, but it was difficult to conjecture whether she was consciously thinking or not. Those betraying words of hers: “They said he was dead--they pretended I had killed him--my husband--Gilardoni!” echoed in the brain of the prince like a beating pulse. Had she, then, committed some fearful crime, and had her reason given way under the sting of conscience? But no--no, a thousand times no! It was impossible. With a love, a loyalty wasted on its object, he refused to believe anything ill of his beloved one. “My own--my wife!” he murmured fondly. Lucia shivered, but made no response. They drove fast, and were soon at the gates of the stately pile where the bride was to be lodged suitably to her rank. The prince lifted her from the carriage, and drawing her hand once more within his arm, led her up to the wide, richly carpeted staircase to the suite on the first floor. Finette had preceded her mistress by five or ten minutes, and was waiting with the other servants near the entrance. The newly married pair walked through the bowing files of lackeys, and passed into the principal sitting-room--a long, lofty salon, glowing with softly modulated colors, rare china, mirrored panels, rich draperies, and flowers. The prince closed the door, and sat down on a stool by the trembling Lucia. “My dear love,” he said, with the deepest anxiety, yet resolved on giving her the opportunity of granting some explanation, “what happened to you in the chapel just now?” “I don’t know,” she vacantly replied. “What?--how?--I do not recollect. I felt very ill.” “You are not well now.” “No; I am not.” “You seem totally different from your usual self.” “I feel so--I feel like--I cannot say how I feel--my brain is on fire.” “What did you mean by----” “By what?” she sharply demanded, turning on him the full gleam of her resplendent eyes, to which the light of reason for a moment returned. “In the chapel you fancied you saw some one.” “I fancied? How strange! I forget,” Lucia replied, laughing gaily. “Whom did I fancy I beheld?” “You said some very singular words, my dear love.” “What did I say?” But before he could speak a word in reply, her glance became again wild and uncertain. She shuddered as if seized with ague, and then leaned forward, as if she again saw the phantom conjured up by her disordered brain in the chapel. “He is here!” she whispered, half to herself. “He has followed to claim me. I can never escape him now. There is blood upon his wrist, where----It is useless to struggle. I must give way to my destiny. But I will never go with you,” she exclaimed, raising her voice. “Never--never!”