“There goes Midchekoff to the Palace,” said the Jew, as a handsome equipage drove past. “Then it is time for me to be away,” said D'Esmonde, rising. “I have received orders to meet him there. Remember, Morlache, I must have this sum in gold, ready by the evening; the bills on London can reach me by post.” “All shall be attended to,” said Morlache; and the Abbé entered his carriage once more, giving orders for the Pitti. When the carriage had passed the first turning, however, D'Esmonde appeared to have remembered something that till then had escaped him, and he desired the man to drive round to the San Gallo gate; thence he directed his way to the narrow road which traverses the valley of the Mugello, and winds along for miles at the foot of the hill of Fiesole. Once outside the city, D'Esmonde urged the man to speed, and they drove for nigh an hour at a rapid pace. “There is a footpath somewhere hereabouts leads to Fiesole,” said D'Esmonde, springing out, and casting his eyes around. “I have it Remain here till I come down. I may be absent for an hour or more; but be sure to wait for me.” And so saying, he passed into a vineyard beside the road, and was soon lost to view. The pathway was steep and rugged; but D'Esmonde traversed it with an active step, scarcely seeming to bestow a thought upon its difficulties, in the deeper preoccupation of his mind. As little did he notice the peasant greetings that met him, or hear the kindly accents that bade him “good-day” as he went. If at intervals he stopped in his career, it was rather to take breath and to recruit vigor for new efforts, than to look down upon the gorgeous scene that now lay beneath him. For an instant, however, his thoughts did stray to the objects in view; and as he beheld the dark towers of a gloomy castellated building, half hid amongst tall yew-trees, he muttered,----