crossing, and at this spot stood a young man, in whose face youth itself
looked sapless and blasted. It was then March;--the third of March; the
weather was unusually severe and biting, even for that angry month.
There had been snow in the morning, and it lay white and dreary in
various ridges along the street. But the wind was not still in the keen
but quiet sharpness of frost; on the contrary, it howled almost like a
hurricane through the desolate thoroughfares, and the lamps flickered
unsteadily in the turbulent gusts. Perhaps it was the blasts which
increased the haggardness of aspect in the young man I have mentioned.
His hair, which was much longer than is commonly worn, was tossed wildly
from cheeks preternaturally shrunken, hollow, and livid: and the frail,
thin form seemed scarcely able to support itself against the rush of the
winds.

As the tall figure, which, in its masculine stature and proportions, and
a peculiar and nameless grandeur of bearing, strongly contrasted that of
the younger man, now came to the spot where the streets met, it paused
abruptly.

"You are here once more, Castruccio Cesarini; it is well!" said the low
but ringing voice of Ernest Maltravers. "This, I believe, will not be
our last interview to-night."

"I ask you, sir," said Cesarini, in a tone in which pride struggled with
emotion--"I ask you to tell me how she is; whether you know--I cannot
speak--"

"Your work is nearly done," answered Maltravers. "A few hours more, and
your victim, for she is yours, will bear her tale to the Great Judgment
Seat. Murderer as you are, tremble, for your own hour approaches!"