thee the book of fate, leaving
thee to the blind paths which thy passions have ever moved thee to
take."

The stranger muttered something apologetically.

"Make me no excuses. I only ask thee to forbear and submit. I said not
that Francesca Ziani should be _thine_! I said only that I beheld her
in thy arms."

"And what more do I ask!" was the exulting speech of the stranger, his
voice rising into a sort of outburst, which fully declared the
ruffian, and the sort of passions by which he was governed.

"If that contents thee, well!" said the woman, coldly, her eye
perusing with a seeming calmness the brazen plate upon which the
strange characters were inscribed.

"That, then, thou promisest still?" demanded the stranger.

"Thou shalt see for thyself," was the reply. Thus speaking the woman
slowly arose and brought forth a small chafing-dish, also of brass or
copper, not much larger than a common plate. This she placed over the
brazier, the flame of which she quickened by a few smart puffs from a
little bellows which lay beside her. As the flame kindled, and the
sharp, red jets rose like tongues on either side of the plate, she
poured into it something like a gill of a thick tenacious liquid, that
looked like, and might have been, honey. Above this she brooded for
awhile with her eyes immediately over the vessel; and the keen ear of
the stranger, quickened by excited curiosity, could detect the
muttering of her lips, though the foreign syllables which she employed
were entirely beyond his comprehension. Suddenly, a thick vapor went
up from the dish. She withdrew it from the brazier and laid it before
her on the table. A few moments sufficed to clear the surface of the
vessel, the vapor arising and hanging languidly above her head.

"Look now for thyself and see!" was her command to the visiter; she
herself not deigning a glance upon the vessel, seeming thus to be
quite sure of what it would present, or quite indifferent to the
result. The stranger needed no second summons. He bent instantly over
the vessel, and started back with undisguised delight.

"It is she!" he exclaimed. "She droops! whose arm is it that supports
her--upon whose breast is it that she lies--who bears her away in
triumph?"

"Is it not thyself?" asked the woman, coldly.

"By Hercules, it is! She is mine! She is in my arms! She is on my
bosom! I have her in my galley! She speeds with me to my home! I see
it all, even as thou hast promised m