silver bell, said—

"Did you not hear me, madame?" giving his voice that gentle expression so peculiar to the Sicilian dialect. "I wish you no harm—far from it. If you will grant me the request I am about to make, I will adore you as if you were a Madonna. You are already as beautiful; be as good as one."

"But what is it you require?" said Gemma, her voice still trembling; "and why did you come here in this manner, and at such an hour?"

"Had I requested the favour of an interview with one so noble, so rich, and so much loved by a man who is almost a king, is it probable that you would have granted it to me, so poor and unknown? Tell me, madame. But even if you had been so condescending, you might have delayed your answer, and I have no time to wait."

"What, then, can I do for you?" said Gemma, recovering herself by degrees.

"Everything, madame; for you hold in your hands my despair or my happiness—my death or my life."

"I do not understand you; explain yourself," faltered out the countess.

"You have," said the stranger, "a young woman from Bauso in your service."

"Teresa?" asked the countess.

"Yes, Teresa," replied the young man in trembling accents. "Now, this young woman is to be married to a valet de chambre of the Prince de Carini, and she is betrothed to me."

"Ah! it is you, then?" said the countess.

"Yes, it was I she was about to marry when she received your letter desiring her to come to you. She promised to remain faithful to me—to mention me to you, and if you refused her request, she pledged her word to return to me. I continued to expect her; but three years passed by, and yet I saw her not; and as she has not returned to me, I have come to seek her. On my arrival I learnt all, and then I thought I would throw myself on my knees before you, and ask Teresa of you."

"Teresa is a girl I am partial to," said the countess, "and I do not wish her to leave me. Gaetano is the prince's valet de chambre, and by marrying him she will still remain near me."

"If that is one of the conditions, I will enter the prince's service," said the young man, evidently suppressing his feelings.

"But Teresa told me you would not enter into service."

"That is true," replied the stranger; "but if it is necessary, I will make any sacrifice for her; only, if it were possible, I would be one of the huntsmen rather than a domestic servant."

"Well," said the countess, "I will speak of it to the prince, and if he consents—"

"The prince will do all that you wish, madame," interrupted the young man. "You do not ask, you order; I know that well."

"But what guarantee have I for your good conduct?" asked the countess.

"My eternal gratitude, madame," said the young man.

"Still I must know who you are," said the countess.

"I am a man," said the stranger, "whom you can make miserable or happy; that is the sum of all."

"The prince will ask me your name," said the countess.

"What is my name to him?" asked the stranger. "Is he acquainted with it? Has the name of a poor peasant of Bauso ever reached the prince's ears?"

"But I belong to the same country as yourself," said the countess; "my father was Count of Castel Nuovo, and lived in a little fortress a quarter of a league from the village."

"I know it, madame," said the young man, in a low hoarse voice.

"Well, I ought to know your name," said the countess. "Tell me, then, and I will see what I can do for you."

"Believe me, madame la comtesse," said the stranger, "it would be better for you to remain ignorant of it. What does my name signify? I am an honest man. I would make Teresa happy; and if it were necessary, I would sacrifice my life for you or the prince."

"Your obstinacy is very strange," said the countess, "and I have a greater desire to know your name than ever, for when I asked Teresa what it was, she, like you, refused to tell me. In the meantime, I warn you that I will not consent to your wishes except on that condition."

"You wish to know it then, madame?"

"I insist upon it!" said the countess.

"For the last time," said the stranger, "I beg, I implore you, not to insist upon it."

"Either name it," said the countess, in an imperative tone, "or leave me."

"I am called Pascal Bruno," said the young man, in so calm a voice that you might have imagined every emotion had passed away if the paleness of his features had not been evidence of the internal struggle.

"Pascal Bruno!" cried the countess, drawing back in her chair in terror. "Pascal Bruno! You, the son of Antonio Bruno, whose head is placed in an iron cage at the Château de Bauso?"

"I am his son," coolly replied the young man.

"And do you not know," asked the countess, "why your father's head is placed there? Speak!" Pascal remained silent. "Well," continued the countess, "it was because your father attempted to assassinate mine."

"I know all that, madame," replied Pascal, calmly; "and I know, besides, that when you, then a child, was taken into the village, your attendants showed you that head, and told you it was my father's head; but they did not tell you, madame, that your father dishonoured mine."

"Thou liest!" passionately exclaimed the countess.

"May God punish me if I tell not the truth. Madame, my mother was beautiful and virtuous; your father, the count, became enamoured of her: but she resisted all his importunities, all his promises, and all his threats; but one day, when my father had gone to Taormina, the count caused her to be carried off by four men, taken to a small house that belonged to him between Limero and Furnari (it is now a tavern), and there—madame—he violated her!"

"The count was lord and master of the village of Bauso," said Gemma, proudly. "Both the property and the persons of its inhabitants belonged to him, and he did your mother much honour by admiring her."

"My father did not think so it appears," said Pascal, knitting his brow. "That, perhaps, was because he was born at Stilla, on the lands of the Prince de Moncada Paterno; and on that account he struck the count. The wound was not mortal; so much the better. For a long time I deeply regretted it; but now, to my shame, I congratulate myself on it."

"If my memory be correct," said the countess, "not only was your father put to death as murderer, but your uncles are still at the galleys."

"Your memory is good," said Pascal. "My uncles gave an asylum to the assassin, and defended him when the officers came to arrest him: they were, therefore, looked upon as accomplices, and sent, my uncle Placido, to Favignana; my uncle Pietro, to Lipari; and my uncle Pépe, to Vulcano. As for myself, I was too young; and, although I was arrested, they gave me up again to my mother."

"And what became of your mother?" asked Gemma.

"She died," said Pascal, mournfully.

"Where?" asked Gemma.

"In the mountains between Pizzo di Goto and Nisi," replied Pascal.

"Why did she leave Bauso?" inquired the countess.

"That every time we passed the castle," said Pascal, "she might not see the head of her husband, nor I that of my father! Yes, she died without a physician, without a priest—she was buried in unholy ground, and I dug her grave. There, madame—you will pardon me, I trust—over the newly-turned earth I swore to avenge the wrongs of my family—of whom I, alone, remain—upon you, the only survivor of the family of the count. But I became enamoured of Teresa, and I left the mountains that I might not see my mother's grave, towards which I felt myself perjured. I came down to the plain, and went to Bauso. I did more than that, for when I knew that Teresa had left the village to enter your service, I thought of entering that of the count. For a long time I felt repugnant at the idea; but my love for Teresa overcame every other feeling. I made up my mind to see you—I have seen you; here am I,