ame to me.'

'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' replied
Bertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'

Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say,' he
resumed, 'you shall hear the story.'

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more than
curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard the
relation before.

'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle came
into my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my
predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her
family. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixed
upon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that she
was herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom she
bestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took possession
of her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her own life.
I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some singular and
mysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall repeat them.'

'Repeat them!' said a voice.

Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;
but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, at
length, recovered himself. 'We are overheard,' said he: 'we will finish
this subject another time. Pass the goblet.'

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.

'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor,
proceed.'

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.

'We did,' said Bertolini.

'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see no
person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed within
the room. Pray, Signor, go on.'

Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while
the cavaliers drew nearer to attend.

'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some months
shewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Her
mood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and,
at others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms of
frantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she had
recovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into her
usual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and forbade all
interruption. It was the chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors,
where