cold."

Ginevra trembled, and looked at her father anxiously. The struggle
within him must have been horrible, for his face was distorted.
Ginevra knew the extent of the peril before her, but she did not
flinch. Bartolomeo, meanwhile, cast furtive glances at his daughter,
as if he feared a character whose violence was the work of his own
hands.

Between such natures all things must be extreme. The certainty of some
impending change in the feelings of father and daughter gave to the
worn and weary face of the baroness an expression of terror.

"Ginevra, you love the enemy of your family," said Piombo, at last,
not daring to look at his daughter.

"That is true," she replied.

"You must choose between us. Our vendetta is a part of our being.
Whoso does not share my vengeance is not a member of my family."

"My choice is made," replied Ginevra, calmly.

His daughter's tranquillity misled Bartolomeo.

"Oh! my dear child!" he cried, letting her see his eyes moistened with
tears, the first and only tears he ever shed in life.

"I shall be his wife," said Ginevra, abruptly.