"'I, the hapless Ruperta, to whom God gave the fatal gift of beauty, make this vow before high Heaven: with my hand placed on these sad relics, I swear to revenge my husband's death by all the means in my power, and with all diligence, though I were to risk therein my miserable life a thousand times. No dangers shall scare me, no entreaties shall avail to soften me, and until I have succeeded in effecting this my just, if not Christian resolve, I swear that my apparel shall be black, my apartments hung with the same gloomy hue, my attendants shall wear mourning, and I will have no company, but live in solitude; at every meal I will have these relics present, which keep up the torment of my soul; this head, which shall, without a voice, command me to revenge its injury; this sword, on which I seem to see the yet streaming blood, shall, by kindling mine, leave me no rest until I am avenged!' "After speaking thus, her tears seemed to flow less incessantly, and her sighs and complaints became more moderate. She then began to arrange a journey to Rome, to obtain there from some powerful personages, aid and protection against the murderer of her husband, who still threatens her. "Now, sirs, you will see what I have told you if you come in about two hours from this time; if you are not moved and astonished by it, either I have told my story ill, or your hearts must be of marble." Here the mourning squire ceased speaking, and the pilgrims, even without having seen Ruperta, were filled with wonder and compassion for her case. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII. Anger is said to be a revolution of the blood about the heart, which warms up at sight of the object which inflamed it, and sometimes with the bare recollection of the offence. It hath for its final goal and resting place, vengeance, which, when it is taken upon the offender with or without reason, calms the ire. This would lead us to suppose the beautiful Ruperta passionate and vindictive, and with so strong a desire to be revenged upon her enemy, that even if she knew that he was dead, her hatred would extend to his descendants, of whom she would not wish to leave one alive, for the wrath of a woman is boundless. The hour came when the pilgrims were to see her, themselves unseen. They saw her extremely lovely, with a long and flowing white veil, which reached from her head to her feet, as she was seated before a table, on which was placed the head of her murdered lord in its silver case, the sword that had deprived him of life, and a shirt, which was all stained with his blood.