"Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed, Sad proof of thy distressful state: Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted love—now, raving, calling on hate." And calling, indeed, upon hate, as she strode her chamber in a frenzy near akin to madness, was the lady Adelaide, when her attendant, Lucrezia, entered. "My dear lady," she exclaimed, bursting into tears, as any crocodile might do—"my dear, dear young lady, I cannot know that you are thus suffering, and keep away from your presence. Pardon me for intruding upon you against orders." The Lady Adelaide smoothed her brow, and the lines of her face resumed their haughtiness, as she imperiously ordered Lucrezia to quit the room. The heart most awake to the miseries of life wears to the world the coldest surface; and it was not in the Lady Adelaide’s nature to betray aught of her emotions to any living being, save, perhaps, her husband. "Nay, my lady, suffer me to remain yet a a moment: at least, while I disclose what I know of that viper." The Lady Adelaide started; but she suppressed all excitement, and Lucrezia began her tale—an exaggerated account of the interview she had been a witness to between the Lord of Visinara and Gina Montani. The countess listened to its conclusion, and a low moan escaped her. "What think you now, madam, she deserves?" "_To die!_" burst from the pale lips of the unhappy lady. "To die," acquiesced Lucrezia, calmly. "No other punishment would meet her guilt; and no other, that I am aware of, could be devised to prevent it for the future." "Oh! tempt me not," cried the lady, wringing her hands. "I spoke hastily." "Give but the orders, madam," resumed Lucrezia, "and they shall be put in practice." "How can I?" demanded the Lady Adelaide, once more pacing the room in her anguish; "how could I ever rest afterwards, with the guilt of murder upon my soul?" "It will be no guilt, lady." "Lucrezia!" "I have made it my business to inquire much about this girl—to ascertain her history. I thought it my duty, and very soon I should have laid the whole matter before you." "Well?" "You may destroy her, madam, as you would destroy that little bird there in its golden cage, without sin and without compunction." "Oh, Lucrezia, Lucrezia! once more I say unto thee, tempt me not. Wicked and artful as she is, she is still one of God’s creatures." "Scarcely, my lady," answered Lucrezia, with a gesture which spoke of deep scorn for the culprit. "I have cause to believe—good cause," she repeated, lowering her voice, and looking round, as if she feared the very walls might hear the fearful words she was about to utter, "that she is one of those lost creatures who are enemies to the Universal Faith, a descendant of the Saxons, and an apostate; as too many of that race have become." "_What_ say you?" gasped the Lady Adelaide.