irritation; and by the
most artful pleading ultimately incites him to the murder of his
father, in which he is to be joined by the rest of the family. The plot,
after one unlucky attempt, succeeds; and at the moment of its
accomplishment, is discovered by a messenger, who is despatched to the
lonely castle of Petrella (one of the Count's family residences), with a
summons of attendance from the Pope. We need hardly say that the
criminals are condemned; and not even the lovely Beatrice is able to
escape the punishment of the law. The agitation she experiences after
the commission of the incest, is powerfully descriptive.

"How comes this hair undone?
Its wandering strings must be what blind me so,
And yet I tied it fast.--O, horrible!
The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls
Spin round! I see a woman weeping there,
And standing calm and motionless, whilst I
Slide giddily as the world reels--My God!
The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood!
The sunshine on the floor is black! The air
Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe
In charnel pits! Pah! I am choaked! There creeps
A clinging, black, contaminating mist
About me--'tis substantial, heavy, thick,
I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues
My fingers and my limbs to one another,
And eats into my sinews, and dissolves
My flesh to a pollution, poisoning
The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life!"

At first she concludes that she is mad; but then pathetically checks
herself by saying, "No, I am dead." Lucretia naturally enough inquires
into the cause of her disquietude, and but too soon discovers, by the
broken hints of the victim, the source of her mental agitation.
Terrified at their defenceless state, they then mutually conspire with
Orsino against the Count; and Beatrice proposes to way-lay him (a plot,
however, which fails) in a _deep and dark ravine_, as he journeys to
Petrella.

"But I remember
Two miles on this side of the fort, the road
Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow,
And winds with short turns down the precipice;
And in its depth there is a mighty rock,
Which has, from unimaginable years,
Sustained itself with terror and with toil
Over a gulph, and with the agony
With which it clings seems slowly coming down;
Even as a wretched soul hour after hour,
Clings to the mass of life; yet clingi