"What have I to say of Naples? That its tyrant walks in blood to his knees!" A man, I, with my hot furies, to be intrusted with the commonwealth! "I will trouble you to repeat that sentence at some day," he said. "Here and now, if you will!" I uttered, my hand on my hilt. "Thanks. Not here and now. It will answer, if you remember it _then_.--I hope I see Her Highness well. Pardon this little _brusquerie_, I pray. The southern air is kind to loveliness: I regret to bring with me Her Highness's recall." She replied in the same courteous air, inquired concerning her acquaintance, and ordered lights,--took the letter he brought, and held it, still sealed, in the taper's flame till it fell in ashes. "Signor," she said, lifting the white atoms of dust and sifting them through her fingers, "you may carry back these as my reply." "Nay, I do not return," he answered. "And, Signorina, many things are pardoned to one in--your condition. Recover your senses, and you will find this so among others." Then, as coolly as if nothing had happened, he spoke of the affairs of the day, the tendency of measures, the feeling of the people, and finally rose, kissed her hand, and departed. He was joined without by the little Viennois, and the accursed couple sauntered down the street together. I should have gone then,--the place was no longer safe for me,--but something, the old spell, yet detained me. Lenore did not speak, but threw open all the windows and doors that were closed. "Let us be purified of his presence, at least!" she cried, when this was done. "And you have ceased to fear this man whom you have dared so offend?" I asked. "He is not offended," said Lenore. "Austria is not Naples. He will not transmit my reply till he is utterly past hope." "Hope of what?" "Of my hand." "Lenore! Then put him beyond hope now! Become my wife!" "Ah,--if it were less unwise"-- "If you loved me, Lenore, you would not think of that." "And you doubt it? Why should I, then, say again that I love you,--I love you?" Ah, friend, how can I repeat those words? Never have I given her endearments again to the air: sacred were they then, sacred now, however false. Ah, passionate words! oh, sweet _issimos!_ tender intonations! how deeply, how deeply ye lie in my soul! Let me repeat but one sentence: it was the, key to my destiny. "Yes, yes," she said, rising from my arms, "already I do you injury. You think oftener of me than of Italy." It was true. I sprang to my feet and began pacing the floor, as I sought to recall any instance in which I had done less than I might for my country. The cool evening-breeze, and the bell-notes sinking through the air from distant old campaniles, soothed my tumult, and, turning, I said,-- "My devotion to you sanctifies my devotion to her. And not only for her own sake do I work, but that you, you, Lenore, may have a land where no one is your master, and where your soul may develop and become perfect."