he lay down upon the divan, which, in the darkness of the recess, was in complete obscurity. He had barely time to draw the folds of the mantle about him, when a servant entered, with noiseless step, and stood at a respectful distance, awaiting what he believed to be his master's orders. “Send the Sigñora,” muttered D'Esmonde, with the cloak folded across his mouth, and then turned on his side. The servant bowed and retired. D'Esmonde started up, and listened to the retiring footfalls, till they were lost in distance, and then the strong pulsations of his own heart seemed to mock their measured pace. “Would the stratagem succeed?” “Would she come, and come alone?” were the questions which he asked himself, as his clasped hands were clinched, and his lips quivered in strong emotion. An unbroken stillness succeeded, so long that, to his aching senses, it seemed like hours of time. At last a heavy door was heard to bang; another, too,--now voices might be detected in the distance; then came footsteps, it seemed, as of several people; and, lastly, these died away, and he could mark the sweeping sounds of a female dress coming rapidly along the corridor. The door opened and closed; she was in the library, and appeared to be waiting. D'Esmonde gave a low, faint cough; and now, hastily passing on, she entered the inner chamber, and, with cautious steps traversing the darkened space, she knelt down beside the couch. D'Esmonde's hand lay half uncovered, and on this now another hand was gently laid. Not a word was uttered by either; indeed, their very breathings seemed hushed into stillness. If the secrets of hearts were open to us, what a history, what a life-long experience lay in those brief moments! and what a conflict of passion might be read in those two natures! A slight shudder shook D'Esmonde's frame at the touch of that hand which so often had been clasped within his own, long, long ago, and he raised it tenderly, and pressed it to his lips. Then, passing his other arm around her, so as to prevent escape, he said, but in a voice barely audible, the one word, “Lola!” With a violent effort she tried to disengage herself from his grasp; and although her struggles were great, not a cry, not a syllable escaped her. “Hear me, Lola,” said D'Esmonde; “hear me with patience and with calm, if not for my sake, for your own.” “Unhand me, then,” said she, in a voice which, though low, was uttered with all the vehemence of strong emotion. “I am not a prisoner beneath this roof.” “Not a prisoner, say you?” said D'Esmonde, as he locked the door, and advanced towards her. “Can there be any bondage compared to this? Does the world know of any slavery so debasing?” “Dare to utter such words again, and I will call to my aid those who will hurl you from that window,” said she, in the same subdued accents. “That priestly robe will be but a poor defence here.”