it to countless atoms; and where the jewel was, a heap of dust, which men despise and trample on, alone remains! "Lorenzo!" said the Countess, in a hurried tone,--"Lorenzo, a chill is creeping over me. It is cold now--cold as the grave--I feel that I am dying. It is terrible, Lorenzo, to die so young! You will pray for me, though you have ceased to love me? Think of me, once more--only once--when Perline di Francavilla is your happy bride. Do not let her triumph too far; but think of me even on your bridal day, one moment, before you forget me for ever. For then, oh, Lorenzo--then--I shall be a thing fit only to forget. A poor, passive, nameless thing, beyond the reach of memory or sensation. And the tears of my friends, and the triumph of my foes, will be alike; for they will both be unknown and unnoticed by me." "Angiolina!" cried the Chevalier, "if you would not destroy me quite, have mercy!" "Have you not now come from Arezzo, Di Vasari?" There are moments in which, even to serve its need, the heart revolts from falsehood.--There was no answer. "Have you not daily seen Perline di Francavilla there? Have you not--perjured as you are--have you not pledged your false heart to her?" "Then, never--by all my hopes in heaven!" exclaimed the Chevalier, urged almost beyond self-control; and changing his tone from that of sorrow almost into one of injury and recrimination--for if his conscience did not entirely acquit him of blame, yet neither was he guilty in the extent to which he was accused.--"Forced, by your own command--would I had never listened to it!--to quit Florence, chance more than purpose led me to Arezzo. If I have seen Perline di Francavilla there," continued the speaker--and here his voice did falter something--"it has been only in that common intercourse, which the long connection of our houses rendered unavoidable. But your token said, that you were in sickness--in danger--What was Perline, then, or all the world, to me? Am I not here to save--to perish for--Angiolina--to perish with you? For why should one live on, who now can live only to a sense of wretchedness! If I had wronged your trust--say that I had been light and thoughtless--he trifles with the richest gem in fancied safety, who hugs his treasure close, and feels its value when its loss is threatened. Angiolina, you have wronged me. You will regret to have done so; but my errand shall be fulfilled. I came to aid--to avenge--or perish with you."