nt of the peril before her, but she did not flinch.
Bartolomeo, meanwhile, cast furtive glances at his daughter, as if he
feared a character whose violence was the work of his own hands.

Between such natures all things must be extreme. The certainty of some
impending change in the feelings of father and daughter gave to the worn
and weary face of the baroness an expression of terror.

"Ginevra, you love the enemy of your family," said Piombo, at last, not
daring to look at his daughter.

"That is true," she replied.

"You must choose between us. Our vendetta is a part of our being. Whoso
does not share my vengeance is not a member of my family."

"My choice is made," replied Ginevra, calmly.

His daughter's tranquillity misled Bartolomeo.

"Oh! my dear child!" he cried, letting her see his eyes moistened with
tears, the first and only tears he ever shed in life.

"I shall be his wife," said Ginevra, abruptly.

Bartolomeo seemed dazed for a moment, but he recovered his coolness
instantly, and replied:--

"The marriage will not take place in my lifetime; I will never consent
to it."

Ginevra kept silence.

"Ginevra," continued the baron, "have you reflected that Luigi is the
son of the man who killed your brother?"

"He was six years old when that crime was committed; he was, therefore,
not guilty of it," she replied.

"He is a Porta!" cried Bartolomeo.

"I have never shared that hatred," said Ginevra, eagerly. "You did not
bring me up to think a Porta must be a monster. How could I know that
one of those whom you thought you had killed survived? Is it not natural
that you should now yield your vendetta to my feelings?"

"A Porta!" repeated Piombo. "If his father had found you in your bed you
would not be living now; he would have taken your life a hundred times."

"It may be so," she answered; "but his son has given me life, and more
than life. To see Luigi is a happiness without which I cannot live.
Luigi has revealed to me the world of sentiments. I may, perhaps, have
seen faces more beautiful than his, but none has ever charmed me thus;
I may have heard voices--no, no, never any so melodious! Luigi loves me;
he will be my husband."

"Never," said Piombo. "I would rather see you in your coffin, Ginevra."

The old Corsican rose and began to stride up and down the salon,
dropping the following sentences, one by one, after pauses which
betrayed his agitation.

"You think you can bend my will. Und