But Albano had not written, and had not entered Lilar. Roquairol's old
passion for Linda was undiminished; his rage at Albano was beyond
bounds. He could mimic Albano's writing and voice; he knew of Linda's
night-blindness. On the next night, in the presence of Albano and Linda,
he slew himself with his own hand.

The death of Roquairol lay like a blight between the lovers. They parted
for ever.


_III.--Idoine_


"War!" This word alone gave Albano peace. He made himself ready for a
journey to France, and ere he set forth he sought out the little spot of
earth, beneath a linden-tree, where reposed the gentle Liana, the
friendly, lovely angel of peace.

Suddenly, with a shudder, he beheld the white form of Liana herself
leaning against the linden. He believed some dream had drawn down the
airy image from heaven, and he expected to see it pass away. It
lingered, though quiet and mute. Kneeling down, he exclaimed,
"Apparition, comest thou from God? Art thou Liana?"

Quickly the white form looked round, and saw the youth. She rose slowly,
and said, "My name is Idoine. I am innocent of the cruel deception, most
unhappy youth." Then he covered his eyes, from a sudden, sharp pang at
the return of the cold, heavy reality. Thereupon he looked at her again,
and his whole being trembled at her glorified resemblance to the
departed--prouder and taller her stature, paler her complexion, more