wound he had received (for Buondelmonte knew not how slight it was).

After the first absorbing pleasure of installing Imma in his palace as its mistress, of presenting her to his kindred as Madonna Buondelmonte, and of triumphantly receiving their congratulations, the bridegroom remembered the request of his midnight visitor.

He retired to the room in which he had held his conference with his deliverer, and sat down to the table to write. He began, but for some time could proceed no further than "Reverend Padre-" He mused-formed phrases-rejected them-mused again -stood up and paced the room-sat down again, and at length, after a little reflection, wrote as follows:

"REVEREND PADRE,

"Whatever indignation you may justly feel at the sight of my hand-writing, I pray you, by your good patience, to restrain it till you read to the end of this communication, which much concerns one who is deservedly dear to you, and believe me that nothing but a subject of deep importance to her would give me courage to intrude upon you. I have (but not wantonly) outraged the feelings of a noble lady. I am not about to plead any justification, but I am happily enabled to offer some kind of reparation by affording some valuable information on the subject which I believe to be the nearest to her heart. I may not commit it to writing for a reason which you will yourself hereafter appreciate; and at the moment of communicating it I must produce a living witness to vouch for the truth of intelligence so extraordinary. My witness entreats of you inviolable secrecy. He cannot enter the Palazzo Amidei, or any place where there would be risk of discovery. He requests to meet you and the noble daughter of the house of the Amidei in a place of equal privacy and security. I would earnestly request of you to consent, with that noble lady, to meet me, unworthy as I may seem, and my witness-my binger of peace-to-morrow before the hour of early mass, in the chapel of the monastery of St. John, the superior of which is my near kinsman. I pray you, reverend Padre, to offer my respectful greeting to her towards whom I have unfortunately appeared so much wanting in courtesy, and assure her that if she will grant the request contained in this letter, and accompany you to St. John's, in the interest of the intelligence my witness has to offer she will overlook and forget the unwelcome presence of

har

GIOVANNI DEI BUONDELMONTE.

Buondelmonte despatched his letter to Padre Severino by a trusty messenger, whom he desired to request an answer from the Padre.

The priest read the letter with great surprise, and carried it to

Amidea, who, on recognising the hand, at first turned aside with a look of displeasure.

"Read it, read it, my child," said the old man, hastily; "it concerns you much, and it will not wound your feelings, or I would not offer it to you. Read it, and share in my surprise." Amidea read it.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, "if there be truth in man; if he be not sporting with me now, it is of Florestan's fame he has to speak. Perhaps he has found proofs of that unhappy victim's innocence."

"I agree with you, Amidea, that this communication regards the late Captain Bastiani; Buondelmonte was always anxious to gain some clue to his fate."

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Surely," said Amidea, "I need not distrust Buondelmonte since he desires your presence. We will go, father?" she added, in a tone of interrogation and hesitation, as if asking leave.

"We will go," rejoined the priest; "it seems our duty to the accused. And besides, by complying with Buondelmonte's request we may find means to avert the civil discord that I greatly fear his inconstancy and inconsiderateness are bringing upon Florence."

"I feel now," said Amidea, with animation, "that I can forgive him all yes, and embrace his beautiful bride, if needs were, though Imma has been very false, at least very uncandid, to my proffered friendship."

The old priest gave her a look of approbation, and wrote a few lines, which he delivered to Buondelmonte's messenger.

Buondelmonte received the Padre's favourable reply with pleasure, and his next care was to warn his "witness," who was no other than his midnight deliverer. By means of a preconcerted plan, the noble Guelph gave him notice that he must attend next morning at the appointed rendezvous. The notice was received. with a delight so extreme that it almost amounted to pain; and all the persons concerned waited, apart from each other, with highly wrought feelings till the hour of an interview so agitating to all should arrive.

CHAPTER XXV.

Joys unexpected, and in desperate plight,

Are still most sweet, and prove from whence they come.
Cæsar and Pompey.-Geo. Chapman.

Next morning, at the hour indicated, Padre Severino and Amidea repaired to the chapel in the monastery of St. John. The chapel appeared to be empty; but as they proceeded further

within the building, Buondelmonte advanced to them from a

recess.

Amidea's heart beat, and a glow passed over her brow; but she had previously schooled herself, and she held out her hand as a token of amity to the young Guelph, who took it with deep respect, and endeavoured to express, as collectedly as he could, his thanks for her generosity; and he added-"I do not ask your entire forgiveness, earnestly as I desire it, till you acknowledge I have deserved it. There is but one reparation I could offer to you, and that I am enabled to do by a most unexpected combination of circumstances. May I pray you, reverend father, and your fair charge, to accompany me to a part of this monastery where my kinsman the superior's kindness will secure us from interruption."

He opened a small side door in a recess, and they ascended a turret stairs, and proceeded along a gallery till they arrived at a small, simply-furnished room. There were a few heavy oaken chairs, and a small table, on which stood drinking-cups, a vase of water, and a flagon of wine.

"Here," said Buondelmonte, "we need fear no intrusion, and I pray you to be seated;" turning to Amidea-" you will need all your strength."

"You terrify me," said Amidea, growing very pale, and grasping the Padre's hand, for she was nearly overcome at seeing herself on the brink of some agitating scene; and she was powerfully affected by the silence and loneliness of the place, which was in a remote, unused part of the monastery.

"Fear nothing," replied Buondelmonte; "I am a harbinger of good."

He advanced to the table, poured out a cup of water, which he presented to Amidea, and said, "There is wine in that flagon, but it is too early to offer that to you yet." And as he spoke he smiled significantly, as if his words had a double meaning. "Now I will go seek my witness."

He quitted them; but Amidea and the priest were too much excited to remain quiet in the small turret-room, and they advanced to the door, which commanded a view of that part of the monastery. It was a square, formed by lofty stone walls, covered with an unadorned roof, and flagged with black and white stones. Along one side ran a gallery, supported by stone pillars, having the turret-chamber at one end; and at the opposite end a flight of stone stairs descended to the square below, in which appeared a small heavy door, rounded at top, and thickly studded with large nails. The scene was lighted by two small windows with heavy stone frames, one at the centre of the gallery, the other immediately opposite.

. Amidea and the priest looked down from the gallery.

"This dreary scene," said Amidea, “appears only fitted for something melancholy. How strange and hollow my voice sounds!

But look there!"

At this moment the heavy door below opened, and Buondelmonte appeared, followed by a male figure, on which Amidea and the priest gazed with intense interest. It was Buondelmonte's midnight deliverer. He was now again masked; his hat was flapped over his brow, and his person carefully concealed by the ample foldings of the well-worn military cloak. He took Buondelmonte's arm, and they advanced slowly.

"That was the cloak of a Ghibelline officer," whispered the priest. "I can perceive where it was once embroidered. See how it has been stained with blood."

"This man," whispered Amidea, "was surely a comrade of Florestan."

"It is one of the Glee-singers," said the priest; "his cloak has flown open, and discovers the green dress worn by those minstrels."

"Then," replied Amidea, "it is the man whose welcome song promised me hope. Oh! I remember the silver-white lily."

"Hush!" said the priest, "they are at hand." And he drew her within the room, but she could still see into the gallery and watch the men approach; the stranger frequently stopping as if from agitation, and Buondelmonte animating him as he led him along.

They now entered the turret-room, and Buondelmonte secured the door. Amidea, unable to support herself, sat down; the priest stood beside her. Buondelmonte leaned his back against the door; but the stranger, walking forwards, stopped just before Amidea, and stood silent. Amidea, averting her eyes from him, addressed Buondelmonte :"Who is this?"

"A friend; the tenor-voice of the Glee-singers, called Brunetto."

"Did he know," she began eagerly.

"Question him yourself," interrupted the young Guelph; "I brought him here for that purpose."

She now addressed Brunetto, her voice trembling very much :“Have you ever known the late unfortunate Captain Bastiani ?" There was no answer; but the Glee-singer threw off his cloak, and showed his finely-proportioned figure; took off his large hat, and suffered his bright black hair to wave over his brow; he removed his mask, and Amidea and the priest exclaimed together, "Florestan!" and gazed with astonishment at the unexpected apparition; while Florestan, clasping the hand of Amidea, hung over her with a deep and silent feeling.

They looked earnestly in each other's countenance. Amidea

marked the clear, serene, steady light in Florestan's eyes, and felt convinced of his innocence; Florestan read in Amidea's eyes that he was beloved-believed. Their first gaze brought a happy consciousness to the heart of each; their second remarked the alteration that little more than eighteen months had wrought in each. Florestan was more pale and thin; his features were more prominent, and his countenance had acquired a sickly appearance; but the same beautiful expression was there-the same placid smile on the lip. Florestan saw that Amidea's rich carnation had faded; that her sparkling air was gone; that her eye had less light, her figure less elasticity; and there was a slight contraction, as from mental pain, about her brow. But she only appeared to him the more lovely for this alteration, which told him he had not been forgotten or unwept.

All had been silent from deep feeling; but now Buondelmonte approached Amidea, and addressed her:

"Now, Amidea, may I not hope pardon for the past? Instead of my own hand, I present you with one calculated to render you happier than mine ever could have done."

Amidea replied "Kind Buondelmonte! my heart thanks you; this is more than amends. But speak to me, Florestan, speak to me; assure me this is your own, your living self. So many questions, so many thanksgivings, crowd to my tongue, that I know not what to utter first. Florestan! you are silent, as they say ghosts are; how often must I adjure you, speak to me?"

"My Amidea!" said Florestan; but dare I call you so?"

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Why not?" cried Amidea; "why else are you restored to me from the dead ?”

"My Amidea! it has been but lately that I dared to dream of a moment like this."

"Where have you been, Florestan, while I have been mourning your death? where have you been?"

"Often very near you, but unseen, Amidea."

"Yes," she replied, "and I have often heard your voice, and it has thrilled me, and I have thought it something familiar. Oh! I would have given worlds could any one then have whispered to me, That is indeed the voice of Florestan.'

Then Amidea, recollecting Padre Severino, turned to him, and demanded with all the jealousy of affection

"Father, why have you not spoken to Florestan? why have you not told him how we rejoice to see him whom we believed buried among the fallen at Bouvines ?"

The priest had been hitherto a watchful spectator, intently employed in observing Amidea and her lover; but on being appealed to he took the hand of Florestan :

and not

"Welcome, my son! welcome once more to our eyes; the less so that my surprise has kept me silent awhile. We have Sept. 1845.-VOL. XLIV.-NO. CLXXIII.

C