Though her vacant stare might have assured him either that she did not understand his words, or follow their meaning, never daunted, he went on. “Yes, madam; and, like _her_ husband, yours has had much to bear,--levity, frivolity, and--worse.” “What are you here for? Why have you come after me?” cried she, wildly. “I swore to you before, and I swear it again, that I will never go back to you.” “Whenever you reduce that pledge to writing, madam, call on me to be your security for its due performance; be it known to you, therefore, that this meeting was an unexpected happiness to me.” She covered her face, and rocked to and fro like one in the throes of a deep suffering. “I should be a glutton, madam, if I desired a repetition of such scenes as these; they filled eight years--eight mortal years--of a life not otherwise immemorable.” “And what have they done for _me?_” cried she, roused almost to boldness by his taunting manner. “Made you thinner, paler, a trifle more aged, perhaps,” said he, scanning her leisurely; “but always what Frenchmen would call a _femme charmante_.” The mockery seemed more than she could bear, for she sprang to her feet, and, in a voice vibrating with passion, said, “Take care, Miles M'Caskey,--take care; there are men here, if they saw me insulted, would throw you over that sea-wall as soon as look at you.” “Ring for your bravos, madam,--summon your condottieri at once,” said he, with an impudent laugh; “they 'll have some warmer work than they bargained for.” “Oh, why not leave me in peace?--why not let me have these few years of life without more of shame and misery?” said she, throwing herself on her knees before him. “Permit me to offer you a chair, madam,” said he, as he took her hands, and placed her on a seat; “and let me beg that we talk of something else. Who is the Count?--'The Onoratissimo e Pregiatissimo Signor Conte,'” for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from his pocket,--“'Signor Conte d'Amalfi,'--is that the name of the owner of this place?” “No; it is the Chevalier Butler, formerly minister at Naples, lives here,--Sir Omerod Bramston Butler.” “Ah, then, I perceive it is really meant for another person! I thought it was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives here, perhaps?” “I never heard of him.” “Who lives here besides Sir Omerod?” “My Lady,--that is, the Countess; none else.” “Who is the Countess? Countess of what, and where?” “She is a Milanese; she was a Brancaleone.” “Brancaleone, Brancaleone! there were two of them. One went to Mexico with the Duke of Sommariva,--not his wife.”