and trap, robbed, shipwrecked
for her.

The princess trembled, and tried to get away from him; but he held
her robe, he clung to her, he made her hear his pitiful story and
Margaret's; he caught her hand, and clasped it between both his, and his
tears fell fast on her hand, as he implored her to think on all the
woes of the true lovers she would part; and what but remorse, swift
and lasting, could come of so deep a love betrayed, and so false a love
feigned, with mutual hatred lurking at the bottom.

In such moments none ever resisted Gerard.

The princess, after in vain trying to get away from him, for she felt
his power over her, began to waver, and sigh, and her bosom to rise and
fall tumultuously, and her fiery eyes to fill.

"You conquer me," she sobbed. "You, or my better angel. Leave Rome!"

"I will, I will."

"If you breathe a word of my folly, it will be your last."

"Think not so poorly of me. You are my benefactress once more. Is it for
me to slander you?"

"Go! I will send you the means. I know myself; if you cross my path
again, I shall kill you. Addio; my heart is broken."

She touched her bell. "Floretta," said she, in a choked voice, "take him
safe out of the house, through my chamber, and by the side postern."

He turned at the door; she was leaning with one hand on a chair, crying,
with averted head. Then he thought only of her kindness, and ran back
and kissed her robe. She never moved.

Once clear of the house he darted home, thanking Heaven for his escape,
soul and body.

"Landlady," said he, "there is one would pick a quarrel with me. What is
to be done?"

"Strike him first, and at vantage! Get behind him; and then draw."

"Alas, I lack your Italian courage. To be serious, 'tis a noble."

"Oh, holy saints, that is another matter. Change thy lodging awhile, and
keep snug; and alter the fashion of thy habits."

She then took him to her own niece, who let lodgings at some little
distance, and installed him there.

He had little to do now, and no princess to draw, so he set himself
resolutely to read that deed of Floris Brandt, from which he had
hitherto been driven by the abominably bad writing. He mastered it, and
saw at once that the loan on this land must have been paid over and over
again by the rents, and that Ghysbrecht was keeping Peter Brandt out of
his own.

"Fool! not to have read this before," he cried. He hired a horse and
rode down to the nearest port. A vessel was