He was awoke by the noise of the door being unbolted; soon afterwards Giacomo appeared with his breakfast,--the first one he had seen,--thanks to the purse! he also received from his keeper a small parcel, from which he tore the paper, and produced a glass phial full of a liquid as clear as water; he drew the cork, placed the bottle beneath his nose, and then, as if satisfied it was what he wanted, recorked it, and hid it under his vest. "An English donna is going to visit Signore," said Giacomo. "At what hour?" "Afternoon, I think." "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Viscount de Vere, clasping his hands together. "Leave me now;--no,--stay,--bring paper, pen, and ink." In a short time these were brought, and the Viscount began to write. Several times he tore up what he had written; at last, as if satisfied with the contents, he folded the sheet, and addressed it to-- "_The Right Honourable, the Countess of Wentworth._" He also placed it beneath his vest. He then walked again hurriedly up and down his cell, often marking a ray of sunshine which crept along the damp ground--this was his timepiece. So accurately had he noticed its travels, he seemed to know the very minutes of its onward march. Hours rolled on. The beam had reached the allotted distance. "'Tis noon," he involuntarily exclaimed, drawing a long, deep sigh. A few minutes, and he heard a footstep approaching the door, the key grated in the wards--he shuddered, and staggering rather than walking to his couch, threw himself on his breast, and buried his face in his hands. He heard the door open, and soon afterwards a light step approaching him--it ceased--she stood beside him. With a sudden exertion he sprung up and threw himself on his knees; for a few seconds he dared not look up; at last he raised his eyes--yes, there she stood, the lady of his love; long years had passed since he last saw her, but she was the same Ellen, her beauty matured, but unimpaired; she stood like his good angel, weeping over her lost charge; tear after tear gathered and fell from those large, blue eyes. This was his third strange interview with the adored idol of his heart. Once he had kneeled at her feet and from those lips heard the fatal words that sealed his doom; once he had stood the brutal oppressor over the weeping suppliant; now he kneeled at her feet, the convict prisoner; each had been a darker shade. On former occasions twice had Ellen opened the conversation, this time she was unable to speak, and it devolved on him to break silence. "Ellen," he said, "unworthy as I feel to take your pure name on my defiled lips, do you forgive me? Oh! say so, and I die happy." "Edward, I have nothing to forgive; I have forgiven long ago; it is I who should ask forgiveness of you." "Thanks, lady, I can now die happy."