last words of her who will soon die to the world. Fair maid, they are
prophetic!"

Violante shrunk back to her father's breast, and there hid her glowing
face, resigning her hand to Beatrice, who pressed it to her bosom. The
marchesa then came back to Harley, and disappeared with him in the
interior of the vessel.

When Harley again came on deck, he seemed much flurried and disturbed.
He kept aloof from the duke and Violante, and was the last to enter the
boat, that was now lowered into the water.

As he and his companions reached the land, they saw the vessel in
movement, gliding slowly down the river. "Courage, Leonard, courage!"
murmured Harley. "You grieve, and nobly. But you have shunned the worst
and most vulgar deceit in civilized life; you have not simulated love.
Better that yon poor lady should be, awhile, the sufferer from a harsh
truth, than the eternal martyr of a flattering lie! Alas, my Leonard!
with the love of the poet's dream are linked only the Graces; with the
love of the human heart come the awful Fates!"

"My Lord, poets do not dream when they love. You will learn how the
feelings are deep in proportion as the fancies are vivid, when you read
that confession of genius and woe which I have left in your hands."

Leonard turned away. Harley's gaze followed him with inquiring interest,
and suddenly encountered the soft dark grateful eyes of Violante. "The
Fates, the Fates!" murmured Harley.