tic
sentiment; his hair was long and fair, with chestnut beard and eyebrows;
add to these attractions a highly educated mind, natural eloquence
expressed by a musical and penetrating voice, and the reader may form
some idea of Monsignor the Abbe Guerra.

No sooner had he seen Beatrice than he fell in love with her. On her
side, she was not slow to return the sympathy of the young priest. The
Council of Trent had not been held at that time, consequently
ecclesiastics were not precluded from marriage. It was therefore decided
that on the return of Francesco the Abbe Guerra should demand the hand of
Beatrice from her father, and the women, happy in the absence of their
master, continued to live on, hoping for better things to come.

After three or four months, during which no one knew where he was,
Francesco returned. The very first night, he wished to resume his
intercourse with Beatrice; but she was no longer the same person, the
timid and submissive child had become a girl of decided will; strong in
her love for the abbe, she resisted alike prayers, threats, and blows.

The wrath of Francesco fell upon his wife, whom he accused of betraying
him; he gave her a violent thrashing. Lucrezia Petroni was a veritable
Roman she-wolf, passionate alike in love and vengeance; she endured all,
but pardoned nothing.

Some days after this, the Abbe Guerra arrived at the Cenci palace to
carry out what had been arranged. Rich, young, noble, and handsome,
everything would seem to promise him success; yet he was rudely dismissed
by Francesco. The first refusal did not daunt him; he returned to the
charge a second time and yet a third, insisting upon the suitableness of
such a union. At length Francesco, losing patience, told this obstinate
lover that a reason existed why Beatrice could be neither his wife nor
any other man's. Guerra demanded what this reason was. Francesco
replied:

"Because she is my mistress."

Monsignor Guerra turned pale at this answer, although at first he did not
believe a word of it; but when he saw the smile with which Francesco
Cenci accompanied his words, he was compelled to believe that, terrible
though it was, the truth had been spoken.

For three days he sought an interview with Beatrice in vain; at length he
succeeded in finding her. His last hope was her denial of this horrible
story: Beatrice confessed all. Henceforth there was no human hope for
the two lovers; an impassable gulf separa