steps; she turned quickly down the aisle, and I after her. Once or
twice she lingered, and I thought I should overtake her; but again,
when, not a second after the door had closed upon her, I stepped out
into the street, she had vanished. On the church step lay something
white. It was not a flower this time, but a letter. I rushed back to
the church to read it; but the church was fast shut, as if it had not
been opened for years. I could not see by the flickering
shrine-lamps--I rushed home, lit my lamp, pulled the letter from my
breast. I have it before me. The handwriting is hers; the same as in
the Archives, the same as in that first letter:--

"To Spiridion.--

"Let thy courage be equal to thy love, and thy love shall be rewarded.
On the night preceding Christmas, take a hatchet and saw; cut boldly
into the body of the bronze rider who stands in the Corte, on the left
side, near the waist. Saw open the body, and within it thou wilt find
the silver effigy of a winged genius. Take it out, hack it into a
hundred pieces, and fling them in all directions, so that the winds may
sweep them away. That night she whom thou lovest will come to reward
thy fidelity."

On the brownish wax is the device--"AMOUR DURE--DURE AMOUR."

_Dec. 23rd.--_

So it is true! I was reserved for something wonderful in this world. I
have at last found that after which my soul has been straining.
Ambition, love of art, love of Italy, these things which have occupied
my spirit, and have yet left me continually unsatisfied, these were