strous, absurd. For, as surely as thou art there, Nisida--as the
heaven is above us and the earth beneath us--as surely as that I love
thee so well as to be unable to reproach thee more for the deed which
thou hast confessed--so surely, Nisida, was Agnes my own granddaughter,
and I--I, Fernand Wagner--young, strong, and healthy as thou beholdest
me, am fourscore and fifteen years of age."

Nisida started in affright, and then fixed a scrutinizing glance upon
Fernand's countenance; for she feared that his reason was abandoning
him--that he was raving.

"Ah! Nisida, I see that you do not credit my words," he exclaimed; "and
yet I have told thee the solemn, sacred truth. But mine is a sad history
and a dreadful fate; and if I thought that thou would'st soothe my
wounded spirit, console, and not revile me, pity, and not loathe me, I
would tell thee all."

"Speak, Fernand, speak!" she cried; "and do me not so much wrong as to
suppose that I could forget my love for thee--that love which made me
the murderer of Agnes. Besides," she added, enthusiastically, "I see
that we are destined for each other; that the dark mysteries attached to
both our lives engender the closest sympathies; that we shall flourish
in power, and glory, and love, and happiness together."

Wagner threw his arms around Nisida's neck, and clasped her to his
breast. He saw not in her the woman who had dealt death to his
granddaughter; he beheld in her only a being of ravishing beauty and
wondrous mind, so intoxicated was he with his passion, and so great was
the magic influence which she wielded o'er his yielding spirit. Then, as
her head reclined upon his breast, he whispered to her, in a few
hurried, but awfully significant words, the nature of his doom, the
dread conditions on which he had obtained resuscitated youth, an almost
superhuman beauty, a glorious intellect, and power of converting the
very clods of the earth into gold and precious stones at will.

"And now, dearest," he added, in a plaintive and appealing tone, "and
now thou may'st divine wherefore on the last day of every month I have
crossed these mountains; thou may'st divine, too, how my escape from the
prison of Florence was accomplished; and, though no mortal power can
abridge my days--though the sword of the executioner would fall harmless
on my neck, and the deadly poison curdle not in my veins--still, man can
bind me in chains, and my disgrace is known to all Florence."

"But tho