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'I" CHAPTER XIIL ! A Mort,…

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'I" CHAPTER XIIL A Mort, The Captain of the Mercenaries remained at the door of Beatrice's room until be was satis. tied that it was well with her; theu with a brief word of relief ha went downstairs to give instructions to his men. It was plain to him that the joung man Giovanni had escaped th his story to the city, but Paul da Ponte was >t the man to be surprised bv such an advan- Age, and he set about the business of his excuses ithont any loss of time. For a. full hour there .vere mesaages to and fro between the Casa degli Spiriti and the Ducal Pilace gondolas drifted about the steps of the house and men passed in and out with letters at their girdles. To the Senate the Captain told a brief story, The French Count, he said, waz3 nob with Madame la Marqnise bat it might be supposed that he would return, whon. if the Savi so pleased, he should be brought to the Palace instantly. Furthermore, be made a pretence of Asking the pleasure of his superiors, and signed Himself, his tongU3 in his cheek, their faithful servant and, this being dona, he despatched 4ther troopers to the houses of his freinds that be might find support should bis shrewd defence jiiscarry. Not a clever man by any manner of neans, Da Ponte nevertheless was equipped with a. certain vulgar cunning which served him well in the decadent days of Venice. And DOW oppor. tunity hf:d come stumbling upon him, and he embraced it with clumsy arms. So far had Beatrice of Vemco stood above his schemes yes- terday, that even his audacity made no mention of her in its wildest flights. Rich, well oefriended, high in favour, she had passed by him in the public hour and the private, not dis- dainfully, but as one who was totally unaware of his existence. In his turn, Liie night of won- y Sera had set him in her honse to be the master of it, her judge and jailor. He would be a. iool, he Mid, not to gather the last ear of such a harvest of opportunity and, emboldened by the advan- iage, he could go tnrther and say that she, her- jelf, might not be unwilling to purchase his friendship upon any terms —even marriage and "ihe right to her name and possessions. Herein was a fool's hope, which exacted from him a I zarM apon his own clumsiness, and the manner if the first assault. She was not a woman to be ;oerced, he remembered and, coercion profiting nothing, he bethought him of persuasion. The idea pleased him, aact he lost no time in the execution of it. A brief word cleared the hall of the Sclavonians, who had come so exult- ) ingly to stand for justice and a little pillage. Da Ponte sent the most of theni about their business I A terrible eight met her gaze. j apon the paltriest excuses, which deceived no one, the men least of all. No gallant from Florians, seeking a rendezvous with mincing gait, could have mounted the staara as nimbly as this clumsy lover returning to his chosen mis- trees and when he knocked upon her door, a woman's fingers might have craved admittance for him-nevertheless, he was not a little aston- ished to find Beatrice at her writing-table, and an interval of stammering hesitation confessed his surprise. "Marqnise," he exclaimed at last, in a tone which should have provoked her laughter "Mar- quise, I have come to apologise. L- It was much for him, a real shedding of pride and the vanities, and when my lady did not even look no from her table, he imagined that aston- ishment forbade her to speak, and he repeated it with unction. I have come to apologue. Marquise. What has happened is a source of annoyance to me. But after all," and here he fingered the brim of his hat as awkwardly as any boy in the school- bouse, there has not been much harm done." Beatrice laid down her pen, and the light of candles declared in the swollen eyes and the flashed cheeka the tense hour through which "be had lived. Captain da Ponte." she said shrewdly, when von leave my house I will accept your apology-" Da Ponte flung his hat upon the table, and, seating himself in one of the low chairs near to him. tried to make a case out for himself. Impossible, he said you know that I can- not go. If yon had told me everything in the first place, all this might have been spared you, and the life of an honest man saved. It is very oniortunate, Marquise, but I must do my duty. "A coward's refuge-his duty. Does your apology, then, mean that my servant Giovanni is dead ? The qaestion cost her an effort, and she rrembled when she spoke of Giovanni's death. ja Ponte, however, saw his advantage. I Nothing of the kind," he hastened to say w it is I who mast deplore a faithful fallow. Your young man Giovsnni is hali-way to Maestre by this time. A larval, my lady, for he runs like a Greek. I am left, you see, to look after the house. That is what I came to say. Everything must go on as though this had not happened. I have sent to the Palace for my orders, and, perhaps, they will recall me. Well, that is good news for both of U3. but I don't see why we should'starve meanwhile. Let as have supper together, and see if something cannot' be done. Upon my word, I like your eourage, Mllr- guise. If you will have me for a friend, I think I can put this right. Bat you must tell me the amth-I can do nothing until I know it." Beatrice had listened with some indifference to the beginning of this harangue, but as it pro- ceeded she took up her pen and continued her writing. When next she spoke she had the air of one pre-occupied and but half aware of that which had been said. 1, The truth Is all about yon, Captain da Ponte--I can add nothing to it. If yon are the master of this house, my wishes will scarcely con- cern you. Pray give your orders. The maid will sliow you the wire cellar. "Perhaps yon will be more at your ease if I decline your flattering invitation." Oh, come, that's mere pretence. Yon began by provoking me and now you insult me. Well, I know women, and I can laugh at it. Yon are clever enough to be reaeonable. I can make things pleasant or otherwise, just as I choose. It is for you to take or leave my offer, but it won't be repeated. 1 have apologised to you for doing my duty. There are not many men in Venice who would have done as much-are there, now 7" Unhappy Venice. I am indeed fortunate, Captain. Shall I take you at your word-do you piaiiy desire to make it easy for me ?" ¡ A soldier's word—upon my honour." "Then leave this room, and do not enter it again until I invite you. I put you to the proof. I«ave me and I will begin to believe you." He rose instantly and took up his hat. M I certainly will go," be said. and with a laugh, take the key of the cellar with me but I warn von that I expect much. Shall we say to-morrow morning for an understanding ?" He crossed the room, and, stooping, whispered 111 ber oar— To-morrow morning for an understanding na between you and me." Beatrice replied without looking at nim, At acy boor you please, Signore. She waa alone now, and she pushed the paper away from her with just impatience, and locked The door of the salon behind the burly figure. Not for a single instant had he deceived her. She knew that he would remain in her house until the whole story of Gaston's flight was told at the Palace. She knew that every hoar or the morrow wonld bring fresh dangers, new insults. Everything that had been done was characteristic of a government alternately imbecile and driven by panic. Thewomanlywit drew up a case with a. lawyer's acumen. She per- ceived how the possibility of deriding Napo!eon had pleased the dunces who had not the brains to barter with him. She pictured their rage when it was known that Gaston had fled Venice and that the opportunity was lost. Instaple, shifty as they ware, what more natural than that dudr rage should be vented upon one whom they believed to be the agent of this almost tragic mishap. The fickle people who had cheered her, Beatrice de St. Remy, yesterday, would stone her to-morrow. Even could she escape the house zmm dangers must her on Terra Firma and and the islands. She foresaw herself sacrificed ■■ to the chagrin of the hour, made the scapegoat j of the national folly, and she declared it ironical beyond expression that her danger at home should ba less than her danger abroad. Never- [ theleas. had she confessed all, the truth might have been that the presence of this man affrighted bar beyond anything she had known in all the years. But the truth was the last thing she wculd confess, and she said always, My wit shall save me, and be shall be the foil between me and the people." It was her only hope—Fiametta, the maid, returning from the inner room, found her almost radiant in the possession of it. She would turn the tables upon Paul da Ponte, as she had turned them upon Lorenzo, the dotard, and many another wbc had withstood her in Venice. Yes, wit should be her ally. The room is ready, my lady, if yon should wish to sleep," Fiametta said. Beatrice drew the child close to her and kissed her npon bi-tb cheeks. Child," she said, who gave you this courage ?" You, my lady I learned it in vonr house." Ah, you say so well, we are alone now, and God knows whether we are right to be sorry or glad. Light the candles, child, lipht them all. I fear the dark—yes, I fear it to-night-and every candle is a friend to me. Do you think that yon conld sleep, Fiairetta-ro, I'm sure yon could not. We will watch and pray together, child prayer is left to us still, and faith in our God." Fiametta said Yes, yes, we can always believe, m'v lady," but the words were a mere echo, and, in truth, she was wondering all the time when the Captain would return, and what he would say. Her own danger was passed by, and ao she could turn a laughing face to the light. "Giovanni will serve us," she cried con- solingly I beheve in Giovanni. He will go to our friends. He told me so when they beat him in the hall; Da Ponte shall pay for it,' he aaid. Giovanni certainly in clever." Beatrice siiook her head, though she would not tell the gir! how little any man's help might serve her in such a dire honror against such odds of circumstance. True, the moment was one of armistice but its duration must be the pleasure ol a scoundrel, and its final outcome new insults —perchance that which was woise than insult-a thousand times. All this she knew, bat her manner spoke no word of it. We must wait and hope." she said, the day will teach us to be brave." The dkty-yes, Beatrice prayed for the day, though the patient clock told her that there were six boars yet to the dawning, and that they must be hours of uncertainty and of peril. Now that the door of the room was shut she could hear no sound from the floor below, though Venice spoke to her in a message of its music, and many a catppanille rang out a chime which seemed to say Yesterday, yesterday." For yesterday she bad been a free woman yes- terday she bad loved yesterday -313e had been honoured in Venice, and now the brief hour had written this decree of accusation and of judgment and she must pay the price that all women pay who have no defence but a woman's imDulse. She tried to sleep, bat oblivion wontd not befriend her; and in her wakIng dreams she walked and talked with Gaalon again, and asked herself once more what was this young soldier's influence over her. Why, from the first had she been unable to resist the desire to seek him out and help him, to save him from the danger of his presence in Venice, and, in doing so, perhaps to compromise her own good name and give rein to ready tongues. She knew that it was because she loved him because, for the first time in her young life, she had met a man who conld mag- uatise ber will and command her as he might pleas3. Of other explanation none was possible. The very n;ll1. oi Gaston could stii deep emo- tions in her heart, courageous as she was, she would have bad no shame to surrender all her burdens to such keeping and this gentle desire of surrender drew upon her in the honr of separa- tion when she seemed to be forsaken of all. She loved Gaston-her woman's heart made good excuses for him. Not a second time would she tall herself that he bad betrayed her. fox* gotten, perhaps despised ber. And this must be set down in some part to that tenacity of will which refused to admit that her final judgment of man was incorrect. She had believed from the first that if anv woman could awttken Gaston de Joyeuse to a real passion, she would have him for the most abject of slaves. And to this idea she clung hopelessly through the long night of waiting. He had left her, dismissed her from his mind-perchance had entered some other honlle upon the road to Gratz and there found anotber dupe nevertheless she would be patient through the years, and the after-hope of faith should be her staff. As the dream began to be lost in the blackness of sleep the bitter thoughts passed away, and she perceived Gaston's image near to her and held up her arms to him and nttered his name, and in his embrace found rest. Then for a, full hour she slept. Her eyes were heavy still when Fiametta waked her and bade her listen. Madame, for the love of God, do you not hear them ? Beatrice had not wholly undressed herself, and she sat up npon her bed and pressed the sleep from her eyes. The dawn was breaking in tho room, and candles had gutteied down in their sockets, and deeper shadows were bteing gathered up by the glimmering daylight. This, however, was the lesser thing, for the new day sent tip to them a loud message from below, whence came the sound of heavy footfalls and sparkling steel and the low cries of men hard pressed. And so it was that Fiametta had come to say, Do you not hear them ?" She herself had been listening for fully five minutes, her hand pressed close to ber wh; e chemise as though to still the beatings of her heart. Sbe knew that, something dieadfnl was happening in the houte. I heard a voice," she said, and that wafead me. 'l'hen a gondola rowed up, and someone entered by the garden gate. I ihink it was Gio- vanni—they did not speak for a long while after- wards, and then, oh, my God, dear madam, what is it-wbat can it mean ?" Beatrice drew her gown about her shoulders and crossed the room with bare feet. She re- membered long afterwards how cold the parquet flooring was, and bow clumsily she fumbled with the key before she could turn it in the lock. Fia- metta, meanwhile, crouched down in the bed- clothes, shuddering and crying like a frightened child. When the door did at last yield to Bea- trice's hand, she opened it but an inch or two and so tried to discern what was happening in the hall. But the light refused to help her, and the black shadows of the great well played with her fears. One figure aione could be perceived—it was that of a trocDer who !ay stone dead by the outer doors with a great wound in his right lung, and the lantern he had been carrying still burn- ing at his side. The yellow glimmer of light seemed to play in horrid mockery upon the black puddle beneath the man's tnuie-his eyes were atarine upward toward the dome of the hall; he had evidently been struck down by someone who surprised him upon the threshold. It was such an unlooked for turn, so wholly fearful and bewildering that Beatrice remained at her door afraid either to advance or draw -back. And yet it cannot be said that fear pre- dominated 10 her mind above that strange prompting of hope which whispered the truth, that the dead man had been killed by her friends and that help was at hand. For who else but a friend would have come to the-Cass degli Spiriti at a moment when even the least loyal to the Republic must shun her as a leper. She be- thought of many names, but none of them save the name of Giovanni Galla satisfied her reason or answered her question. Yes, the girl Fiametta was right after all. Giovanni had returned, but whence ? And if it were be, why this perplexinn silence, this truce of voices and of arms ? Not a single living being was to be seen in the hall. She was sure of it-she could not hear so much an the sound of a man breathing, and she said that whoever had killed the Sclavonian trooper had been alarmed at his own act and had fled the house. Where then were Do. Ponte and the others ? Could it be that he was aaleep ? The darkness told her nothing. She half shut her door and leaned against it panting. Would the sunlight never fathom that great well of the staircase and declare its mysteries ? They have killed a soldier, Fiametta," she said, almost breathing the words in her excite- ment. Tell me all you have heard. I see no ono we are alone, child. What walt it that waked you, then ?" Fiametta stood up and shuddered again when she saw that the door was a little way open still. Someone cried out," she said. It was like an animal's cry. Then I heard the Captain-yes, it was he-I know, but I cannot say it. Giovanni will come back, Madame. If yon shut the door, we conld still hear them. Dear Christ, how frightened I am. Will they kill us, Madame ? I am afraid to die—I am such a child- Why should they wish me harm ? Oh, Giovanni should speak. Why does he not speak when he knows that we are waiting ?" It was just a child's babble of panic and of the ultimate dread which would remain a supreme memory while Fiametta lived. That open door seemed to point the way to darkness and to ter- tor. She could hear nothing,is" nothing and, burying her head, imagination said, now they are coming up hark, there is a footstep upon the starr.' Beatrice herself was powerless any longer to console her. The blind could not lead the blinrl-mietrfts and maid must suffer together to-night. "It it is Giovanni—ifn could be," Beatrice reiterated as one who did not dare to believe so great a thing-and Fiametta watched bar moving from place to place, now toward the window, now toward the bed; and she said to herself again, All lost, my lady is afraid." j "But it was it fear—at least not fear of things 1 known which -rung from a brave woman these witnesses to her mental distress. Beatrice cared | nothing now tbat Paul da Ponte was in her house and would coxae to her. atLdarcuJot _n_- answer-each an answer as ninety of every hun- dred women would give willingly under similar circumstances-to the blunt question he had put to her Relatively while she pitied the poor fel- low who lay dead upon the threshold, the rrgged manners, the strong nerves of her age, left her in some way indifferent to death. The torture was j that of the darkness and the shadows. Why had f the unknown friend left her house ? She felt that she could not rest until she knew all and bid- ding Fiametta got up, she took one of the silver candelabra in her hands and told the girl to fol- low ber. We must know," she said often. If you are afraid, come bnt a little way. We must have light. Are you thinking of Paul da Ponte. No it is I whom he seeks, Fiametta. AncTI am not afraid—not now-now now." She was picking unlighted candles from he glass chandelier in the centre of the room while she spoke, and when she had three in the cande- labrum she carried, and Fiametta had put on her gown and discovered candles in her turn, they went to the door together and passed through it to the balustrade of the great staircase, where- from they' could look down into the open well, but not to the corridors which its pillars walled. The glow of dawn was fuller and leqs grey by this time, the shadows bad receded somewhat, I and the dead man's lantern no longer burned as a taper by the body, but all else was as it had been-no living thing appeared to move in the hall, and as Beatrice descended the stairs in her white gown, her hair unbound, and the candela- bra in her hand, she might bave been some fig are of imagery appearing from the spirit world. ¡' Shining faintly through the gloom, the dancing rays were but wan stars in that great world of twilight-she felt for every step, feared to go on, and yet would not draw back. Who was there, who stood so near to her ? An intuition said, Gaston, your lover." Her heart boat quick—she called his name aloud—he did not answer her. Again she advanced a few steps-again 3he stood to listen. Surely someone was breathing almost npon her cheek. She lifted the light on high and perceived the figure of a man. He was Paul da Ponte, standing all his height behind one of 'the pillars, and she perceived that the point of his naked sword touched the pavement before him, but when he saw her be cried out aloud and sprang into the open—whither another figure followed him—the figure of Gaston de Joyeuse, who had been counting the minutes until the sun should discover his enemy. And now the wan light said Here." Beatrice did not know that one brief hour had taught Gaston how to love her. So tfo men learn. of loss that which Rain may never teach them. Da Ponte had been quick to wheel round to- ward the west, and he had the light behind him and a full sweep for a heavy rapier. Gaston was armed with a light French sword, but he too bad a master's hand, and for many minutes one blade engaged with the other, and not even a twitch of the wrist declared that sense of touch which is the finest in all the swordsman's art. When the disengagement came, the Itaiian cried out like a drillmaster to a squad, One, two, Now and feinting, he came to the engage- ment again with a, hollow laugh which had oeen better kept. There was a grace, a pose, an easy play about Gaston's style which iuvited confidence. He did not attack, made no feint, was a mere defender. For he anticipated the rogue's artifice. No code of honour, written or unwritten, would bind Paul da Ponta. Gaston meant to wait, and while he waited Beatrice stood like a statue, motionless, spellbound, a very type of death. She knew that he loved L,er-and this man might kill him. The agony tortured ber, the day and night seemed to pass, and she was standing there, and the blades were crossed and upon the one side there was the hollow laugh, and upon the other, the clean straight limbs of the finest fencer in Buona- parte's army. From a feint in octave, Da Ponte cut over and lingered and was met by a stiff arm and a point which touched his shoulder and brought a crim- son flush upon hia vest. He did not laugh now, but bit his thick lips; and for a spell engaged without a new plan of attack. The first plan bad taught him to respect this slim masterful anta- gonist, and perhaps for the first time in his life he permitted his imagination to play tricks with him. and to ask what were tbo sensations of a man who bad a sword through his heart. There would be an agony of pain, he thought, and then insensibility but, said the voice, if it be not through his heart but the lungs, a man may linger some liours and be conacions the while. Many a man had fallen thns before his sword and be bad not pitied them at all; but pity for himself because be sa;d, -1 I meant to do well by the woman and duty brought me to ber house," was as bilm to his mind, and he indulged the thought to his danger. At the game time his art did not fail him, andhe knew that he was hold. ing his antagonist. Gaston, indeed, had long since been aware of it, for, strong as he was, this burly Italian had the measure of him, and hia close confinement in Venice was not in his favour, leaving him as it did without those op- portunities iorjphysical exercise which he had enjoyed with Buonaparte's army. So lie would be niggardly in attack until one supreme oppor- tunity should present itself. And while every muscle, every nerve, was at its full tension, he forbade himself to think of Beatrice, lest the re- membrance should unman bam. That she was somewhere near by. that she watched and waited he quite understood and her presence breathed courage upon bim. He would not believe that fate could thns betray him. Da Ponte attacked in quarto now, with light- ning swiftness and perfect distance, and the flash- ing point touched Gaston upon the sword arm, and left a long, jagged scar, from which tha bi-od welled slowly. He recovered himself instantly and met a lunge with so firm a touch that fire flew from the steel and the Italian's wrist trembled like prisoned steel. There was swift attack, new and sure defence and stamp- ing, lunging, the sweat pouring from his face, his lips close set, the Italian moved up and down upon the parquet in such a strife that a miracle alone seemed to snatch his antagonist from death. When they halted for very breath, in a tacit truce, Gaston waa bnt an arm's length from Beatrice, who stood as one transfixed, say- ing, He will die they will kill him." He knew that she was near him, but bis eyes never left Da Ronte'lf face, and he thought that he could interpret every change, even the subtlest upon that puckered countenance. He is afraid, Gas- ton," and then again, He has forgotten how to fear," or He is measuring my strength by his own and will tire me," or He cannot te patient"; his temper will not let him, and patience is bis only chance." This last was true above them all. Even the stake for which he played could not. hold back that impetuosity which had been Da Ponte a rule of life. To go in like a brute beast to- beat down opposition to roar at it lustily to crush antagonism beneath the weight of violence, was the only code of warfare he bad ever known and now when this clean-limbed figure played with him so cunningly, when the tapered steel stood ever as a great barrier between the man and the desire, patience must soon givo place to the deed, opportunity to temper. Baffiod and enraged, the Italian got his breath, again, and while he said to himself ttll the time, "Wait, wait," the impulse drove him in spite of it, and he disengaged and lunged in tierce with the ferocity of a fencing master. For a full minute on, the blades were darting like flames of silver in twilight—neither gave way each knew that this was the crisis of it, and calling to their aid every stratagem, every resource of the supreme art, tbey waited for the aritration of destiny. Now, all this had taken place by that pillar of the hall which sheltered Beatrice from the light and as the two men moved ever toward her in the frenzy of the bout, she retreated yet nearer to the wall, and stood trembling there with Gaston so near to her that her outstretched hand could Face to face; have touched him. The maid Fiametts bad run upstairs again at the first pass, and she, from the stairs head, watched the moving tigures and the darting swords. At first Fiametta thought that it was Giovanni returned, and her faith in him said, He will save us but when she per- ceived that it was not Giovanni, but the French Count, she lost hope again, and, shivering in tho cold air, she turned her face to the wall and would not look. From this attitude she was called by that last suprema attack in which the duellists mo\ed toward my lady and thinking loss either of Da Ponte or Gaston than her mis- tress, she ran a little way down the staircase, and. lifting up the candlestick, she uttered a loud cry, which echoed through the hall and was heard eveu at the gate. Almost in the same instant someone knocked heavily upon tllebronze doors, and believing that there were men to his assistance, Da Ponte took a new Btand, and for a spell neither lunged nor feinted. In this brief interval, the girl Fiametta ran to the door and opened it; and discovering a man there, she implored him, for God's sake, to save her mis- tress. Joseph Villetard, however—for it was he who knocked—pushed her aside roughly, and maKing his way into the bouse, he called loudly Gaston, Gaston. Where the devil are you, Gaston ?" The brisk appeal, the French tongue, the strange voice, fell like a bolt upon Da Ponte's ear. He half turned bin head and took a step backward. Thoogh all befel in the fraction of a second, it seemed to him that a full measure of j his liie was dealt out to him when the steel | WuctiMl otis stft was towed iA it, ami j ran like a burning iron to bis heart. What an age it rested there and yet left him conscious of strength and vitality and sight and sense. The great hall whence the sunlight chased the shadows, Beatrice pale and shrinking by the wall, Fiametta upon the stairs-the glimmering can- dies, tbe cold statuary, the pictures—and this strange face looking so oddly into his own. And then the veil of instant darkness—the shudder- in sense of sinking down as into the bowels of the earth—death to touch his limbs with icy I fiugers and to shut all from his glazing eyes. He fell face downwards almost at Beatrice's feet, and the sword bent and broke beneath hIs huddled body. But Gaaton turned to my lady and caught ber swooning jn his outstretched arms. i (To-be Continued.)

----_._--------WELSH POLITICS.

S-IR J. GORST AT TONYPANDY.

TONYPANDY CATHOUG SCHOOL.

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FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.

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< BARDDONIAETH.

! DYDDIAU YR WYTHNOS.

- YRARDD.

LAIS A CHLThAIS.

YR ARDD.

Quite Different.,