brother, since a woman will be by his side."

"But, Marchesa, this cannot be; and--"

"Beatrice, Beatrice--and me!--our betrothal? Do you forget me?" cried
Frank, in reproachful agony.

"No, young and too noble lover; I shall remember you ever in my prayers.
But listen. I have been deceived, hurried on, I might say, by others,
but also, and far more, by my own mad and blinded heart,--deceived,
hurried on, to wrong you and to belie myself. My shame burns into me
when I think that I could have inflicted on you the just anger of your
family, linked you to my own ruined fortunes,--my own--"

"Your own generous, loving heart!--that is all I asked!" cried Frank.

"Cease, cease! that heart is mine still!" Tears gushed from the Italian's
eyes.

"Englishman, I never loved you; this heart was dead to you, and it will
be dead to all else forever. Farewell. You will forget me sooner than
you think for,--sooner than I shall forget you, as a friend, as a
brother--if brothers had natures as tender and as kind as yours! Now, my
Lord, will you give me your arm? I would join the count."

"Stay; one word, Madame," said Frank, very pale, and through his set
teeth, but calmly, and with a pride on his brow which had never before
dignified its habitual careless expression,--"one word. I may not be
worthy of you in anything else, but an honest love, that never doubted,
never suspected, that would have clung to you though all the world were