my friend Mellendorf, or my men. Yet I fear me, let her but learn who are her deliverers, and I know her well, and well and long thou knowest her, Reverend Father, she will die rather than owe escape to me or mine!"

Two of his trusty soldiers-the two who had, almost breathless, brought to him the news-were standing near Father Francis.

"Can you carry me, good men ?" asked the priest. "Can you carry me to this scene of broil ?”

This will explain the interruption.

Just before his brave, stalwart bearers approached the spot of conflict, Father Francis descended from their arms and advanced, feebly, limpingly, it is true.

He gained the side of Bianca, and he did so without meeting resistance, for Essel instantly recognized him, and his bearers were warranty enough for his friendliness of purpose.

"Bianca! Daughter!"

It would seem as if Bianca was never to escape from the actions and re-actions of emotion.

Many and many a day, and week, and month, had passed away, since Father Francis, her spiritual friend, her confessor, the tutor of her childhood, had been summarily torn from her side.

Most assiduously had the Cardinal kept from her all and every information of his whereabouts and of his condition. In fact, she had long ago affectionately and reverently mourned for him as for one amongst the dead; for she herself knew, as all Christendom knew,

that to attaint a priest was generally equivalent to destroying him,

66

Daughter!" again repeated the good Priest, for there had been no answer to his first words, so astounded and so agitated was she at his appearance and his voice.

And now there came sounds so marked that their distance was short indeed-sounds of men marching so firmly, so regularly, that even an unpractised ear might have detected they came from troops.

"Quick! quick, Lord Rupert! to the palace of the Chigi!" whispered Father Francis, earnestly; and he added a watch-word. "Save her, and leave me!"

CHAPTER X.

COUNT ARENSBERG was, meanwhile, alone within his chamber. Rupert, his brother, Mellendorf, his esquire, both of them had gone forth upon a mission in which, dearest though it still was to his heart, he felt that he could take no part: she whom he loved, and for whose safety life would have been but a poor surrender, would, he knew, peril that safety rather than owe it to his hands-hands which she now believed had been active in signatures to the dishonour of her beloved father.

And Father Francis was gone too-he to whom his heavily-laden soul had disburdened itself; and thus the only remaining link of conscious sympathy with his mournful secret seemed to be broken off.

And then there came upon him anxious self-questionings, whether his own individual interests, in the cause of Bianca and her father, had not made him somewhat forego his loyal duties as the envoy of his Prince. What if this his interposition on their behalf should embroil him with that Court to which he had been despatched for great and purely political purposes?

What would be the judgment of the wise Frederick, his sovereign master, when he heard of it?

All this, however, Arensberg would have treated lightly, had he but retained Bianca's confidence. That would have manned him with energy enough to endure disgrace, should disgrace follow.

There he sat in his solitary room, gloomy, heartstricken, and foreboding terrible apprehensions.

His ear, always quick in listening-for that organ had been long and acutely exercised in his past soldier's life was now preternaturally sensitive.

He heard a knock at the gateway of his house. His heart beat while he marked distinct sounds upon the stairs that approached his room. His own door at length vibrated with the summons of a visitor; and he grew pale, for the summons was gentle, though

earnest.

He invited the applicant; but he did so with a voice somewhat dubious.

The visitor was neither Rupert, nor Mellendorf, nor Father Francis, nor Bianca herself, who, by the strange paradox so often to be seen in the surmises of anxiety, he, for a moment, thought it possible might fly to him.

66

Eccelenze, may I enter? Am I unseasonable in my call? Tell me truly. But do not deny me, unless duty wars with courtesy," said the visitor; and, so saying, he withdrew the folds of the cloak with which he had veiled his face, and disclosed to Arensberg the features of a friend.

"But, ah!" he exclaimed, as soon as he caught sight of the haggard features of the Count, "you are in sorrow I see. Forgive me this intrusion, Eccelenze: I will call to-morrow."

"Stay, pray stay, good Raffaello," answered Arensberg, entreatingly. "I was but this moment thinking that ere I bid farewell to Rome, my duty, my reverence, my gratitude would insist, however painful, upon my seeking an interview with yourself."

"Bid farewell to Rome?" enquired Raffaello in astonishment. 66 Why, your embassy has but just begun! And-and-what, Arensberg?" he asked with a meaning and anxious look.

"All is over! yes, all, dear Raffaello," groaned the Count.

Arensberg then recounted to Raffaello some of the sad particulars of the Marchese's death-scene. He ended with saying,-" Raffaello, all is over!"

"Yes, all is over," echoed a voice faintly, but exultingly, as the young Graf hurriedly entered the room, sank down upon a seat that lay near him, and then feebly added, "Give me some wine, brother: I am faint."

He had reached the Count's rooms by a desperate effort, bleeding as he was. Half-sinking, yet resolved not to sink, he leaned back upon his chair. A deep purple streak ran diagonally across his forehead-some points of it thickly clothed with gore-others still open and pulsing with his blood. Arensberg, his brother, with a soldier's promptitude, drew forth and arranged