Cesarini."

Wan, haggard, almost spectral, his hat over his brows, his dress
neglected, his air reckless and fierce, Cesarini crossed the way, and
thus accosted Lumley:

"We have murdered her, Ferrers; and her ghost will haunt us to our dying
day!"

"Talk prose; you know I am no poet. What do you mean?"

"She is worse to-day," groaned Cesarini, in a hollow voice. "I wander
like a lost spirit round the house; I question all who come from it.
Tell me--oh, tell me, is there hope?"

"I do, indeed, trust so," replied Ferrers, fervently. "The illness has
only of late assumed an alarming appearance. At first it was merely a
severe cold, caught by imprudent exposure one rainy night. Now they fear
it has settled on the lungs; but if we could get her abroad, all might
be well."

"You think so, honestly?"

"I do. Courage, my friend; do not reproach yourself; it has nothing to
do with us. She was taken ill of a cold, not of a letter, man!"

"No, no; I judge her heart by my own. Oh, that I could recall the past!
Look at me; I am the wreck of what I was; day and night the recollection
of my falsehood haunts me with remorse."

"Pshaw!--we will go to Italy together, and in your beautiful land love
will replace love."

"I am half resolved, Ferrers."

"Ha!--to do what?"

"To write--to reveal all to her."

The hardy complexion of Ferrers grew livid; his brow became dark with a
terrible expression.

"Do so, and fall the next day by my hand; my aim in slighter quarrel
never erred."

"Do you dare to threaten me?"

"Do you dare to betray me? Betray one who, if he sinned, sinned on your
account--in your cause; who would have secured to you the loveliest
bride, and the most princely dower in England; and whose only offence
against you is that he cannot command life and health?"

"Forgive me," said the Italian, with great emotion,--"forgive me, and
do not misunderstand; I would not have betrayed _you_--there is honour
among villains. I would have confessed only my own crime; I would never
have revealed yours--why should I?--it is unnecessary."

"Are you in earnest--are you sincere?"

"By my soul!"

"Then, indeed, you are worthy of my friendship. You will assume the
whole forgery--an ugly word, but it avoids circumlocution--to be your
own?"

"I will."

Ferrers paused a moment, and then stopped suddenly short.

"You will swear this!"

"By all that is holy."

"Then mark me, Cesarini; if to-morrow Lady Florence b