deep agitation, he conceived in turn every possible
project, for he was one whose mind worked with all the violent throes
of some mighty engine; and even when taking counsel with himself, the
alternate impulses of his reason became painful efforts. At last he made
up his resolve, and, entering the inner chamber, he closed the shutters
and drew the curtains; and then, throwing around his shoulders a richly
lined cloak of sable, he rang the bell loudly and violently. This done,
he lay down upon the divan, which, in the darkness of the recess, was in
complete obscurity. He had barely time to draw the folds of the mantle
about him, when a servant entered, with noiseless step, and stood at
a respectful distance, awaiting what he believed to be his master's
orders.

"Send the Signora," muttered D'Esmonde, with the cloak folded across his
mouth, and then turned on his side. The servant bowed and retired.

D'Esmonde started up, and listened to the retiring footfalls, till they
were lost in distance, and then the strong pulsations of his own heart
seemed to mock their measured pace. "Would the stratagem succeed?"
"Would she come, and come alone?" were the questions which he asked
himself, as his clasped hands were clinched, and his lips quivered in
strong emotion. An unbroken stillness succeeded, so long that, to his
aching senses, it seemed like hours of time. At last a heavy door
was heard to bang; another, too,--now voices might be detected in the
distance; then came footsteps, it seemed, as of several people; and,
lastly, these died away, and he could mark the sweeping sounds of a
female dress coming rapidly along the corridor. The door opened and
closed; she was in the library, and appeared to be waiting. D'Esmonde
gave a low, faint cough; and now, hastily passing on, she entered the
inner chamber, and, with cautious steps traversing the darkened space,
she knelt down beside the couch. D'Esmonde's hand lay half uncovered,
and on this now another hand was gently laid. Not a word was uttered by
either; indeed, their very breathings seemed hushed into stillness.

If the secrets of hearts were open to us, what a history, what a
life-long experience lay in those brief moments! and what a conflict
of passion might be read in those two natures! A slight shudder shook
D'Esmonde's frame at the touch of that hand which so often had been
clasped within his own, long, long ago, and he raised it tenderly, and
pressed it to his lips.