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to atone by penitence and prayer for the guilt of premeditated murder, which a fortunate chance alone, unknown to himself, prevented him from accomplishing. And now, count," addressing the astonished father of Adriana, " of you I have but one favour to ask. I have saved your daughter from being sacrificed to that monster in human form. From your gratitude I demand a recompense-I claim my bride."

Little more remains to be told. That Count Sforza's gratitude was not of a very ardent nature, from what has been seen of the selfishness of his disposition, may readily be supposed; but it is certain that shame prevented him from placing any farther obstacle in the way of his daughter's union with the object of her choice. The fact too of the supposed deceased wife of the marchese being clearly able to prove her identity, so totally set aside, even in that land of easy morality, all further chance of Vincenza's laying any claim to his daughter's hand, that he became greatly reconciled to the prospect of her union with another; especially as Davenant proved to his satisfaction that he had not only an unsullied name, but a substantial estate in England to offer to Adriana's acceptance.

That the plot against the marchesa's life utterly failed through the interference of Mortimer may readily be conjectured, since the result has been seen. He had rightly judged that, in appealing to

the avarice of the ruffian who had been hired to commit the murder, he was sure of success. He pledged himself, as he knew he might safely do, that the marchesa, if her life were spared, should reward him with double the sum offered by her husband for her destruction. To be paid on both sides, and spared the danger of the deed, appeared to the villain a profitable speculation.

It remained therefore only to conceive a scheme for deceiving Vincenza into the belief that his wishes were fulfilled. This was done in the following manner. Paulo persuaded the marchese that it was too hazardous to attempt the dreadful deed almost within hearing of his own household, and that it would be safer to carry the marchesa from the chapel and make away with her in secret. The unfortunate lady received timely notice to save herself by flight. The dead body of a female, stolen from the churchyard and so purposely disfigured that the features were no longer distinguishable, but dressed in the same clothes which the marchesa had on at the time of her disappearance, and having on her finger a ring of peculiar workmanship which she always wore, was brought in by Paulo to the palazzo, and reported to the household as having been found by him in an adjoining lake. It was generally believed that the marchesa had committed suicide in a returning paroxysm of the fever from which she had so

lately recovered, and the corpse was buried with all due honours in the ancestral monument.

All things being thus arranged, it was determined by Mortimer and Davenant to let events take their natural course; and at the final moment, by a supposed spectral illusion acting on his conscience, to force the marchese into a public acknowledgment of his crime. There is but one more circumstance left to explain. The handsome Englishwoman with whom Davenant was reported to have been so often seen, and who had excited Adriana's jealousy, was a relative of his own, about to be united to a young baronet making an excursion of pleasure at Naples; where Davenant still lingered for the double purpose of being present at her wedding, and saving Adriana from the final sacrifice.

Vincenza, disgraced and degraded in the eyes of his kindred and friends, was seen no more in Naples, but retired to a remote corner of Italy, where his history was not known. It may readily be supposed that his injured wife was warned by experience not to trust her life any more to his tender mercies. She retired with her new-found friends to England, in which more free and happy country Davenant was determined that his own marriage should take place; Mortimer only stipulating, for his share in bringing about that event, that he should be present at the ceremony and give away

the bride. Sick of every thing foreign but the fair creature he had selected for his partner for life, Davenant returned to his native country with a lightened heart. After such a long-tried attachment, united to the chosen object of his love, he lived in the sweet hope (a hope which was subsequently confirmed by the reality) that the intelligent mind of the fair Italian, under the influence of affection and the example of his own more enlightened countrymen, might be freed from the errors of early education-the only errors of which he could think her capable; and remove the only alloy to his happiness, by becoming a convert to the purer faith of Protestantism.

EMMELINE.

THE ANCIENT MONUMENT.
There's a lion under thy feet, Sir Knight,
And over thy head an escutcheon bright,
And, group'd around with mournful mien,
Kneeling kindred and friends are seen;
From some old Time hath cloven the head,
Or the arm of marble away hath shred;
But thou, in thy perfect state, art there,
With cuirass buckled and forehead bare,
And pale hands lifted and clasp'd in pray'r.

Where were the fields of thy proud career?
What were the deeds of thy glittering spear?

With thy good war-steed and thy helmed head
Didst thou trample on heaps of the quivering dead?
Was thy banner on Syrian plains displayed?

Did it flame in the van of the red crusade ?
Didst thou quaff thy cup of foaming wine,
And vaunting lead the embattled line
To the leaguer'd gates of Palestine ?

What was the price of thy warrior-fame ?
What was the cost of thy mighty name?
Did innocent blood profusely spilt

Tinge thy coat of mail with the hue of guilt?
Stern wert thou to thy vassal-train ?

Dead to the moaning of want and pain ?
Lo! the dust of the peasant is sleeping free
'Neath the holy shade of the churchyard tree-
Baron bold! is it well with thee?

I see on the scroll, by thy couch of sleep,
The name of the Saviour engraven deep.
Was that thy chart when the sunbeam smil'd ?
Was that thine anchor when storms were wild?
When the shaft of the spoiler had pierced thy heart,
Did it win the grief from that poison dart?
Then, till the dawn of the day of doom,
Till the trump of the angel shall break the gloom,
Rest-in the peace of the Christian's tomb !
L. H. SIGOURNEY.

London, April, 1841.

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