Frank looked earnestly at him. “And I accept it, and go under an assumed name.” “So do I. It is better.” “You thought Langhetti alive. Do you think he is?” “I do not think so now.” “Why not?” “The efforts which he made were enough to kill any man without the plague. He must have died.” After hearing Frank’s story Louis gave a full account of his own adventures, omitting, however, all mention of Beatrice. That was something for his own heart, and not for another’s ear. “Have you the letter and MS.?” “Yes.” “Let me read them.” Louis took the treasures and handed them to Frank. He read them in silence. “Is Cato with you yet?” “Yes.” “It is well.” “And now, Frank,” said Louis, “you have something at last to live for.” “What is that?” “Vengeance!” cried Louis, with burning eyes. “Vengeance!” repeated Frank, without emotion--“Vengeance! What is that to me? Do you hope to give peace to your own heart by inflicting suffering on our enemies? What can they possibly suffer that can atone for what they have inflicted? All that they can feel is as nothing compared with what we have felt. Vengeance!” he repeated, musingly; “and what sort of vengeance? Would you kill them? What would that effect? Would he be more miserable than he is? Or would you feel any greater happiness? Or do you mean something more far-reaching than death?” “Death,” said Louis, “is nothing for such crimes as his.” “You want to inflict suffering, then, and you ask me. Well, after all, do I want him to suffer? Do I care for this man’s sufferings? What are they or what can they be to me? He stands on his own plane, far beneath me; he is a coarse animal, who can, perhaps, suffer from nothing but physical pain. Should I inflict that on him, what good would it be to me? And yet there is none other that I can inflict.” “Langhetti must have transformed you,” said Louis, “with his spiritual ideas.” “Langhetti; or perhaps the fact that I three times gazed upon the face of death and stood upon the threshold of that place where dwells the Infinite Mystery. So when you speak of mere vengeance my heart does not respond. But there is still something which may make a purpose as strong as vengeance.” “Name it.” “The sense of intolerable wrong!” cried Frank, in vehement tones; “the presence of that foul pair in the home of our ancestors, our own exile, and all the sufferings of the past! Do you think that I can endure this?” “No--you must have vengeance.” “No; not vengeance.” “What then?”