As soon as the procession had issued from the portal, all the choirs of music received him with triumph. They bore him up the lofty steps to the gallery, upon whose balcony he soon showed himself, surrounded by cardinals. Every one dropped on their knees-long lines of soldiers - the aged person like the child-the Protestant stranger alone stood erect, and would not bow himself for the blessing of an old man. Annunciata half kneeled in the carriage, and looked up to the holy father with soul-full eyes. A deep silence reigned around, and the blessing, like invisible tongues of fire, was wafted over the heads of us all.

Next fluttered down from the papal balcony two different papers; the one containing a forgiveness of all sins, the other a curse against all the enemies of the Church. And the people struck about them to obtain even the smallest scrap of them.

Again rang the bells of all the churches; music mingled itself in the jubilant sound. I was as happy as Annunciata. At the moment when our carriage was set in motion, Bernardo rode close up to us. He saluted both the ladies, but appeared not to see me.

"How pale he was!" said Annunciata. "Is he ill?"

"I fancy not," I replied; but I knew very well what had chased the blood from his cheeks.

This matured my determination. I felt how deeply I loved Annunciata; that I could give up everything for her if she yielded me her love. I resolved to follow her. I doubted not of my dramatic talent; and my singing- I knew the effect which my singing had produced. I should certainly make my début with honor when I had once ventured on this step. If she loved me, what pretension had Bernardo? He might woo her if his love were as strong as mine; and, if she loved him, yes, then I would instantly withdraw my claim.

I wrote all this to him in a letter that same day, and I will venture to believe that there breathed in it a warm and true heart, for many tears fell upon the paper as I spoke of our early acquaintance, and how wonderfully my heart had always clung to him. The letter was dispatched, and I felt myself calmer, although the thought of losing Annunciata, like the

vulture of Prometheus, rent my heart with its sharp beak; yet, nevertheless, I dreamed of accompanying her forever, and of winning at her side honor and joy. As singer, as improvisatore, I should now begin the drama of my life.

After the Ave Maria I went with Annunciata and the old lady in their carriage to see the illumination of the Dome. The whole of the church of St. Peter's with its lofty cupola, the two lesser ones by its side, and the whole façade, were adorned with transparencies and paper lanterns; these were so placed in the architecture that the whole immense building stood with a fiery outline amid the blue air. The throng in the neighborhood of the church seemed greater than in the forenoon; we could scarcely move at a foot's pace. We first saw from the bridge of St. Angelo the whole illuminated giant. structure, which was reflected in the yellow Tiber, where boatloads of rejoicing people were charmed with the whole picture.

When we reached the square of St. Peter's, where all was music, the ringing of bells and rejoicing, the signal was just given for the changing of the illumination. Many hundreds of men were dispersed over the roof and dome of the church, where, at one and the same moment, they shoved forward great iron pans with burning pitch-garlands; it was as if every lantern burst forth into flame; the whole structure became a blazing temple of God, which shone over Rome, like the star over the cradle in Bethlehem.1 The triumph of the people increased every moment, and Annunciata was overcome by the view of the whole.

"Yet it is horrible!" she exclaimed. "Only think of the unhappy man who must fasten on and kindle the topmost light on the cross upon the great cupola. The very thought makes me dizzy."

"It is as lofty as the pyramids of Egypt," said I. "It requires boldness in the man to swing himself up there, and to fasten the string. The holy father gives him the sacrament, therefore, before he ascends."

1 The church is entirely built of stone; so are the surrounding edifices: thus there is no danger from leaving the pitch-garlands and iron pans to burn out of themselves. All is therefore in flame through the whole night. - Author's Note.

"Thus must the life of a human being be risked," sighed she; "and that merely for the pomp and gladness of a moment."

"But it is done for the glorifying of God," I replied; "and how often do we not risk it for much less?"

The carriages rushed past us; most of them drove to Monte Pincio, in order to see from that distance the illuminated church, and the whole city which swam in its glory.

"Yet it is," said I, "a beautiful idea, that all the light over the city beams from the church. Perhaps Correggio drew from this the idea for his immortal night."

"Pardon me," she said; "do you not remember that the picture was completed before the church? Certainly he derived the idea from his own heart; and it seems to me also far more beautiful. But we must see the whole show from a more distant point. Shall we drive up to Monte Maria, where the throng is not so great, or to Monte Pincio? We are close by the gate."

We rolled along behind the colonnade, and were soon in the open country. The carriage drew up at the little inn on the hill. The cupola looked glorious from this point; it seemed as if built of burning suns. The façade, it is true, was not to be seen, but this only added to the effect; the splendor which diffused itself through the illumined air caused it to appear as if the cupola, burning with stars, swam in a sea of light. The music and the ringing of bells reached us, but all around us reigned a twofold night, and the stars stood only like white points high in the blue air, as if they had dimmed their shine above the splendid Easter fire of Rome.

I dismounted from the carriage, and went into the little inn to fetch them some refreshment. As I was returning through the narrow passage where the lamp burned before the image of the Virgin, Bernardo stood before me, pale as when in the Jesuit school, he received the garland. His eyes glowed as if with the delirium of fever, and he seized my hand with the force and wildness of a madman.

"I am not an assassin, Antonio," said he, with a strangely suppressed voice, "or I would drive my sabre into your false. heart; but fight with me you shall! whether your cowardice will or will not. Come, come with me!"

"Bernardo, are you mad?" inquired I, and wildly tore myself from him.

"Only cry aloud," returned he, with the same suppressed voice, so that the crowd may come and help you, for you dare not stand single-handed against me! Before they bind my hands you will be a dead man!"

He offered me a pistol. become your murderer!

Come, fight with me, or I shall and, so saying, he drew me forth

with him. I took the pistol which he had offered to defend myself from him.

"She loves you," whispered he; "and, in your vanity, you will parade it before all the Roman people, before me, whom you have deceived with false, hypocritical speeches, although I never gave you cause to do so.'

وو

"You are ill, Bernardo," I exclaimed; "you are mad; do not come too near me."

He threw himself upon me. I thrust him back. At that moment I heard a report; my hand trembled; all was in smoke around me, but a strangely deep sigh, a shriek it could not be called, reached my ear, my heart! My pistol had gone off; Bernardo lay before me in his blood.

I stood there like a sleep-walker, and held the pistol grasped in my hand. It was not till I perceived the voices of the people of the house around me, and heard Annunciata exclaim, "Jesus, Maria!" and saw her and the old lady before me, that I was conscious of the whole misfortune.

"Bernardo!" I cried in despair, and would have flung myself on his body; but Annunciata lay on her knees beside him, endeavoring to stanch the blood.

I can see even now her pale countenance and the steadfast look which she riveted upon me. I was as if rooted to the spot where I stood.

"Save yourself! save yourself!" cried the old lady, taking hold of me by the arm.

"I am innocent!" I exclaimed, overcome by anguish. "Jesus, Maria! I am innocent! He would have killed me; he gave me the pistol, which went off by accident!" and that which I perhaps otherwise should not have dared to say aloud I revealed in my despair, "Yes, Annunciata, we loved thee.

For thy sake would I die, like him! Which of us two was the dearer to thee? Tell me, in my despair, whether thou lovest me, and then will I escape."

"Away!" stammered she, making a sign with her hand, whilst she was busied about the dead.

"Fly!" cried the old lady.

Annunciata," besought I, overcome with misery, "which of us two was the dearer to thee?"

She bowed her head down to the dead; I heard her weeping, and saw her press her lips to Bernardo's brow.

“Fly,

"The gens d'armes !" cried some one just by me. fly!" and, as if by invisible hands, I was torn out of the house.