you will not only have the satisfaction of having done your duty as a Christian minister, and a faithful vassal of your lord, but you will be most richly, most bountifully rewarded."

The priest gazed with astonishment at the prisoner, whose earnest and collected manner appeared most singular in one so situated. "My lord," he replied, "I cannot divine the nature of the favour you ask; if it is in my power, and is inconsistent neither with my duty to my earthly master, nor with my sacred profession, I will endeavour to comply with it."

"Lay aside, then," said Visconti, in a tone of intense supplication, "your priestly robes—take my place on the couch, and allow me to leave the prison in disguise. If my escape is not discovered before the morning, I shall by that time be beyond the reach of pursuit. The Duke of Bavaria, who is married to my eldest daughter, has promised to furnish me with an army to rëassert my rights. Grant my request, and I pledge my word to place the mitre of Milan

upon your head: nay, I have interest with Urban-a Cardinal's hat will be yours, as I am a true knight and an anointed prince."

The confessor shook his head. "My lord, it is too late, much too late."

"Nay, do not talk thus: I know you will not refuse my just demand. Are you a man, a christian minister, and would stand tamely by to behold me murdered in cold blood by the son of my own brother?"

"Alas, my lord, when men commit themselves to the guidance of their passions, what ties will they not break asunder—what crimes will they not commit? Does not every day's experience furnish us with sad examples of the son conspiring against his father, brother against brother-"

"Enough, enough," interrupted the prisoner, hastily; "I see your inclination goes not with your orders. They call me a tyrant, a man of evil deeds. It is true I have committed acts in pride and passion which had been better left undone as who has not? But I cannot leave

my children defenceless in the talons of the cormorant. You cannot comprehend me, for you have no children-yet now you seem to relent. Come, lay aside your robe: before sunrise I shall be half way across the Alps, and all I have promised, all you choose to ask, shall be yours."

"My lord,” replied the confessor, moving towards the door, "I find I must leave you to your fate."

"No, no, you shall not," exclaimed the prisoner, seizing him by the garment: "look upon me-I am upwards of threescore years-I have not a friend in the world; all those who fattened on my bounty have abandoned me—my wife, my very children have cast me off.-I will renounce my title, change my name, give to my nephew all-let me but live, on any terms; but I cannot die to-night I dare not die tonight."

"It is too late, my lord," replied the confessor, gently disengaging his robe; "you are already poisoned beyond all remedy."

Visconti staggered backwards against the table. "Merciful God!" he exclaimed, striking his clenched fist against his forehead, "the wine was poisoned! Is there no remedy, no hope-let me but live to-morrow, but tomorrow."

The priest shook his head mournfully, but made no reply; and Visconti threw himself on the couch, aud covered his face with both his hands. "Holy Mother!" he at length exclaimed, "I feel it even now working in my veins. Water, for heaven's sake, to quench this burning thirst!"

The confessor filled a goblet, and presented it to the dying prince. He instantly drank it off, and lay for some time in a kind of stupor, muttering unintelligibly at times to himself, until the combined effects of the wine and the fatal draught together, produced delirium. Then suddenly raising himself upon one arm, with his face flushed, the veins of his forehead swollen to twice their usual size, and his eyes rolling wildly, he exclaimed, "There! there! seize

the traitorous hound-to the rack with him, you loitering knaves!-Ha! he confesses-nay, talk not to me of blood-he is no nephew of mine! pluck out his heart-see! see! how black it is. A cup of Rhenish, good Antonio, to drink the princely traveller's health, and a smooth gallop to hell, ha ha! ha!"

He paused, exhausted with the violence of his passions, then drawing his hand slowly across his eyes, gazed intently towards the door of his prison for several seconds. "My brother Maffiolo!" he continued in a whisper; "what seeks he here ?—alive and sound too; but no! his eyes are lustreless, his lips are white, his footsteps have no echo. Hence horrible spectre, back to thy grave! I saw thee laid there thirty years ago, coffinned and funeralled as became thy birth, yet hast thou burst thy cerements to come and mock me? See! now he waves his arm. Away! I will not follow thee Jesu! his eyeballs glare on me as if they'd burst their sockets. Avaunt! damned spirit-take off thy burning fingers from my heart-"

VOL. II.