ought the thought of the grave, and the pause of being,
and the withering up of beauty, closer and closer to his soul. In the
palpable and griping winter, death itself seemed to wind around him
its skeleton and joyless arms. And as thus he stood, and, wearied with
contending against, passively yielded to, the bitter passions that
wrung and gnawed his heart,--he heard not a sound at the door--nor
the footsteps on the stairs--nor knew he that a visitor was in his
room--till he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turning round, he
beheld the white and livid countenance of Castruccio Cesarini.

"It is a dreary night and a solemn hour, Maltravers," said the Italian,
with a distorted smile--"a fitting night and time for my interview with
you."

"Away!" said Maltravers, in an impatient tone. "I am not at leisure for
these mock heroics."

"Ay, but you shall hear me to the end. I have watched your arrival--I
have counted the hours in which you remained with her--I have followed
you home. If you have human passions, humanity itself must be dried
up within you, and the wild beast in his cavern is not more fearful
to encounter. Thus, then, I seek and brave you. Be still. Has Florence
revealed to you the name of him who belied you, and who betrayed herself
to the death?"

"Ha!" said Maltravers, growing very pale, and fixing his eyes on
Cesarini, "you are not the man--my suspicions lighted elsewhere."

"I am the man. Do thy worst."

Scarce were the words uttered, when, with a fierce cry, Maltravers threw
himself on the Italian;--he tore him from his footing--he grasped him in
his arms as a child--he literally whirled him around and on high; and in
that maddening paroxysm, it was, perhaps, but the balance of a feather,
in the conflicting elements of revenge and reason, which withheld
Maltravers from hurling the criminal from the fearful height on which
they stood. The temptation passed--Cesarini leaned safe, unharmed, but
half senseless with mingled rage and fear, against the wall.

He was alone--Maltravers had left him--had fled from himself--fled into
the chamber--fled for refuge from human passions to the wing of the
All-Seeing and All-Present. "Father," he groaned, sinking on his knees,
"support me, save me: without Thee I am lost."

Slowly Cesarini recovered himself, and re-entered the apartment. A
string in his brain was already loosened, and, sullen and ferocious,
he returned again to goad the lion that had spared him.