"Oh, God!" he cried. "Is it thus with external fidelity and love?" In
whirling, cruel passion he pictured his love, her coldness, his pain,
her violated oath.

"I did not think thou wert so hard," she said. "Oh, it grows dark to me;
let me to my mother!"

Albano gazed into the groping, timid face, and guessed all--her
blindness had returned!

The mother rushed up. "May God bring you retribution for this!" cried
Albano to her. "Farewell, unhappy Liana!"

For many days Albano lived without love or hope, in bitter
self-reproach; every recollection darted into him a scorpion-sting. And
to him in his agony came the tormenting news that the fickle Roquairol
had deserted Rabette. He drove the false one from his presence; sister
and brother, beloved and friend, were now utterly lost to him.

At length he learned that Liana had recovered her sight, and that she
was dying. Once more, for the last time, he was admitted to her
presence. She reclined in an easy-chair, white-clad, with white, sunken
cheeks.

"Welcome, Albano!" she said feebly, but with the old smile. "Some day
thou wilt know why I parted from thee. On this, my dying day, I tell
thee my heart has been true to thee." She handed him a sheet with a
sketch she had made with trembling hand of the noble head of Linda de
Romeiro. "It is my last wish that them shouldst love her," she said.