only, because satiated, you no longer desired her. Your
faithfulness cunningly clothes itself in the mantle of godliness,
nothing further. No, no, holy father of Christendom, I envy you not this
virtue which has made you the murderer of God's noblest work. That is a
sacrilege committed in the holy temple of nature. Go your way, and think
yourself great in your bloodthirsty, murderous virtue! You will not
convert me to it. Let me still remain a sinner--it at least will not
lead me to murder the woman I love, and provide for her torment and
suffering, instead of the promised pleasure. Believe me, Corilla has
never yet cursed me, nor have her fine eyes ever shed a tear of sorrow
on my account. You have made your beloved an unwilling saint and
martyr--possibly that may have been very sublime, and the angels may
have wept or rejoiced over it. I have lavished upon my beloved ones
nothing but earthly happiness. I have not made them saints, but only
happy children of this world; and even when they have ceased to love me,
they have always continued to call me their friend, and blessed me for
making them rich and happy. You have set of crown of thorns upon the
head of your beloved, I would bind a laurel-crown upon the beautiful
brow of my Corilla, which will not wound her head, and will not cause
her to die of grief. You are not willing to aid me in this, my work?
You refuse me this laurel-wreath because you have only martyr-crowns to
dispose of? Very well, holy father of Christendom, I will nevertheless
compel you to comply with my wishes, and you shall have no peace in your
holy city from my mad tricks until you promise me to crown the great
improvisatrice in the capitol. Until then, _addio_, holy father of
Christendom. You will not see me again in the Vatican or Quirinal, but
all Rome shall ring with news of me!"

With a slight salutation, and without waiting for an answer from the
pope, the cardinal departed with hasty steps, and soon his herculean
form disappeared in the shadow of the pine and olive trees. But his loud
and scornful laugh long resounded in the distance.

THE POPE'S RECREATION HOUR

The pope followed his retreating form with a glance of sadness and a
shake of the head.

"He is past help," murmured he; "he runs to his ruin, and the voice of
warning is unheeded. But how, if he should happen to be right? How, if
he with his worldly wisdom and his theory of earthly happiness, should
be more conformable t