ng been unable to rouse him, she had
written to him. He felt angry with himself. He would have given ten
years of his life to regain that one lost hour. He went to the tall
window of the chapel to invoke a single ray of the moon to enable him to
read the lines which had been traced by the hand of the woman he
worshipped. This consolation was denied him. The moon was hidden by
clouds, and the completest obscurity pervaded the prison. What Taddeo
suffered during the time till day, which it seemed to him would never
dawn, may be fancied, but not described. His fate was in his own hands,
yet it was unknown. Ardently clasping to his heart and to his lips the
perfumed paper on which Felina had written, his heart became
intoxicated. He passionately kissed the sheet on which the singer had
left her words, and a sad presentiment of misfortune took possession of
him. He almost feared the coming of day, the light of which would reveal
to him his fate.

Day dawned, at first feeble, then brighter, and still brighter, and
finally brilliant and clear. He opened the letter, and his eyes glanced
over it with tender earnestness. A livid pallor overcast his features, a
nervous tremor shook him. The lines traced by La Felina he could not
read; and overcome by despair, he sank to his seat. The keeper entered.
"Signor," said he to Taddeo, "the person who visited you three days ago
asks permission to see you again."

"Who is he?" said Taddeo--his voice choked with grief.

"The Marquis de Maulear."

The name recalled to the prisoner his mother and Aminta. This memory
soothed his wounded heart. "My mother, my sister," thought he; "but for
their tenderness what now would be my life! Show the Marquis in."

While the keeper was absent, he hurried to the bed, examined it
anxiously as if in search for something which had escaped his
observation. Seizing the letter, he read anxiously the last lines,
approached the bed, and discovered the mysterious deposit La Felina had
placed under the pillow. He took it and concealed it carefully in his
clothing; and with an accent which betrayed the contest in his crushed
heart, he said aloud, as if he wished some one to hear him, "You judged
me correctly, Felina; misfortune will not make me unjust; I will do what
you ask!"

A cry of joy echoed beneath the vault of the old chapel. Taddeo turned.
The cry had penetrated his heart. But he was alone. Just then Henri de
Maulear entered.

"Yesterday evening, Si