aves," muttered Angelo, with white lips.

"I do not rave,--boy!" screeched the Sister, wildly, "know that my
daughter was his leman. He disgraced our house,--a house haughtier than
his own. Sinner that I was, I vowed revenge. His boy--they had only
one!--was brought up in a robber's camp;--a life of bloodshed--a death
of doom--a futurity of hell--were before him. I plucked the child from
such a fate--I bore him away--I told the father he was dead--I placed
him in the path to honourable fortunes. May my sin be forgiven me!
Angelo Villani, thou art that child;--Walter de Montreal is thy father.
But now, trembling on the verge of death, I shudder at the vindictive
thoughts I once nourished. Perhaps--"

"Sinner and accursed!" interrupted Villani, with a loud shout:--"sinner
and accursed thou art indeed! Know that it was I who betrayed thy
daughter's lover!--by the son's treason dies the father!"

Not a moment more did he tarry: he waited not to witness the effect
his words produced. As one frantic--as one whom a fiend possesses
or pursues--he rushed from the Convent--he flew through the desolate
streets. The death-bell came, first indistinct, then loud, upon his ear.
Every sound seemed to him like the curse of God; on--on--he passed the
more deserted quarter--crowds swept before him--he was mingled with
the living stream, delayed, pushed back--thousands on thousands around,
before him. Breathless, gasping, he still pressed on--he forced his
way--he heard not--he saw not--all was like a dream. Up burst the sun
over the distant hills!--the bell ceased! From right to left he pushed
aside the crowd--his strength was as a giant's. He neared the fatal
spot. A dead hush lay like a heavy air over the multitude. He heard
a voice, as he pressed along, deep and clear--it was the voice of his
father!--it ceased--the audience breathed heavily--they murmured--they
swayed to and fro. On, on, went Angelo Villani. The guards of the
Senator stopped his way;--he dashed aside their pikes--he eluded their
grasp--he pierced the armed barrier--he stood on the Place of the
Capitol. "Hold, hold!" he would have cried--but horror struck him dumb.
He beheld the gleaming axe--he saw the bended neck. Ere another breath
passed his lips, a ghastly and trunkless face was raised on high--Walter
de Montreal was no more!

Villani saw--swooned not--shrunk not--breathed not!--but he turned his
eyes from that lifted head, dropping gore, to the balcony, in whi