“Marcelline!” he exclaimed, in tones of deepest anguish. “Speak to me--one word!” She opened her eyes, and gazed tenderly at him. “Farewell, dear Pomperant,” she said. “At this moment I may confess that I have ever loved you; but as we must have been separated on earth, my death need not afflict you.” “Our parting will be brief,” said Pomperant. “I shall soon join you in heaven. I shall know no more earthly happiness.” “If we are to meet again in regions of bliss, Pomperant,” she said, “you must win Heaven's forgiveness for your share in this dreadful day by years of penitence. Think of my words, Pomperant--neglect them not!” As he pressed her distractedly to his breast, a tremor passed through her frame, and she was gone. So acute was his anguish, that he could scarcely refrain from plunging his sword into his own breast, and dying beside her. We must drop a veil over the horrors of the sack of Rome, which endured without interruption for two months. Never in the history of the world was a city abandoned to such frightful licence--never were such atrocities committed. Bourbon found a place of sepulture in the chapel of the Castle of Gaeta, where a magnificent monument was reared over him by his soldiers. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's The Constable De Bourbon, by William Ainsworth