the withering up of beauty, closer and closer to his soul. In the
palpable and griping winter, death itself seemed to wind around him its
skeleton and joyless arms. And as thus he stood, and, wearied with
contending against, passively yielded to, the bitter passions that wrung
and gnawed his heart,--he heard not a sound at the door--nor the
footsteps on the stairs--nor knew he that a visitor was in his
room--till he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turning round, he
beheld the white and livid countenance of Castruccio Cesarini.

"It is a dreary night and a solemn hour, Maltravers," said the Italian,
with a distorted smile--"a fitting night and time for my interview with
you."

"Away!" said Maltravers, in an impatient tone. "I am not at leisure for
these mock heroics."

"Ay, but you shall hear me to the end. I have watched your arrival--I
have counted the hours in which you remained with her--I have followed
you home. If you have human passions, humanity itself must be dried up
within you, and the wild beast in his cavern is not more fearful to
encounter. Thus, then, I seek and brave you. Be still. Has Florence
revealed to you the name of him who belied you, and who betrayed herself
to the death?"

"Ha!" said Maltravers, growing very pale, and fixing his eyes on
Cesarini, "you are not the man--my suspicions lighted elsewhere."

"I am the man. Do thy worst."

Scarce were the words uttered, when, with a fierce cry, Maltravers threw