"Valdo," replied Florestan, calmly, "I never saw your sister. Is not this a proof of my innocence that Antonio, who called himself the accomplice of Florestan, never recognised me as Florestan ?" "But he has he has recognised you now with his dying eyes; he named you, and you answered. Men of Florence! if you love justice seize the convent-robber." The podesta advanced. "Yes, Florestan Bastiani is an outlaw; banished from Italy on pain of death should he return, and in contempt of the decree he is here. Take him," he added, to the justiciaries, who immediately made Florestan their prisoner. "Yield, Captain Bastiani," cried Piero to him. "Yield; all will be better thus; I can prove your innocence-and I will." Valdo, greatly surprised at Piero's words, turned again to arouse the half-insensible Antonio, and raised him in his arms till he confronted Florestan; and then pointing to the latter, he said, "Dear Antonio, who is that man?" but before the boy could answer he fainted. A surgeon pushed through the crowd, leaned over Antonio, opened his vest, examined the wound, applied some styptic to it, and then rising went up to the podesta and whispered awhile in his ear. The podesta's countenance showed great surprise. He turned to some nobles near him, and said, "We linger here too long, and this is no place for explanations. I learn that the wound of that young Glee-singer is too dangerous to admit of removal to any distance; I shall, on that account, entreat the hospitality of the neighbouring monastery. Go, some of you, and bring a bier, or litter, or something suitable." Piero then spoke awhile in private with the podesta, who now turned to the two captive assassins. "Messer Lamberti and Messer Fifanti, it is painful to see men of your rank thus; I have my reasons for not at this moment committing you to the common prison; you will accompany the wounded person into that monastery, where you will be secured for the present;" and the podesta sent an officer to the religious house with a message to the superior. A litter was hastily brought, and Antonio was raised with the assistance of the surgeon, and transported to the neighbouring monastery, Valdo walking sorrowfully beside him, and a concourse of people following up to the gates. Florestan and the other prisoners were next admitted; and lastly the podesta, with a few Florentine nobles. The attendants of the murdered Buondelmonte procured a bier from the church, laid their master's body upon it, covered it with a funeral pall, raised the sad burden on their shoulders, and set homewards in a melancholy procession, a groom leading the startled-looking white horse immediately behind the bier, the kinsmen of the deceased following on foot, and the remainder of the domestics closing the train; and cries and lamentations accompanied their progress along the streets, for the miserable death of poor Buondelmonte had awakened for him the sympathies of an excitable populace, so lately incensed against him on account of Amidea. But now the punishment seemed to them more than commensurate with the offence, and the popular tide set as strongly against the Ghibellines as it had before done against the Guelphs. Scarce one hour ago the gay young Florentine had left his palace and his beautiful bride in health and joy; one blow had divorced him from his new-made wife, cast him out of his possessions, robbed him of his nobility, and dismissed the invisible spirit beyond recall. And the poor, helpless, inanimate corpse of him who had been rich and powerful was carried by the charity of menials to rest, as it were on sufferance a little while, a fearful guest in the palace of which he was no longer master. NOTE. In allusion to the murder of Buondelmonte, Dante says, in his Vision of "O Buondelmonte! what ill counselling Thou near our city cam'st. But so was doom'd, Florence! on that maim'd stone which guards thy bridge, THE GIRL OF PROVENCE. BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY. [The story of the Girl of Provence who fell in love with the statue of the Belvidere Apollo, and finally died the victim of her unconquerable passion, has before been made the subject of poetry, by, I think, Professor Millman.] SHE had given her heart's pure worship To the beaming mind that shone, Shrined in its rare intelligence, From those eyes of living stone. And day by day beheld her bow'd With lifted eyes, whose glance betray'd Dante means that it had been well for Florence had Buondelmonte's ancestor been drowned in the river Ema on his way to Florence, when first the family went to reside therein. Unconscious of the faltering step, The same bright, fervid look pour'd down The same resistless influence, Throughout that passion's brief wild power Ah! thousand fates might tell thee, girl, "Twas better so to pine Than that some stonier heart had won Better thou shouldst escape the scorn, When woman's deep affections speak Yea, better than that earth's frail vows No chang'd, cold look, no marbling word, Love-toned when love hath died, Mock'd thy warm heart's devotedness With offerings heart-denied. And in this chill lone world of ours Alas! that in love's chronicle No brighter page should be, Than the tried faith of that deep heart, www THE THREE DAYS. PARIS IN JULY, 1830. "WILL you not go with us to the Tuileries to-morrow?” said I, "the weather promises to be fine, and, according to all accounts, the scene will be unusually gay. Louis Philippe . . . "Sans Cullotte," muttered the old lady, with an angry shrug of her shoulders, "bah!" I stared, as you may well suppose, and, slowly repeating this very elegant appellative, wonderingly asked her what she meant. She fidgetted restlessly about upon her chair, tapped the floor impatiently with her foot, plied her knitting-kneedles more busily than before, and again ejaculated, "Bah!" "Well, but Madame Basile," laughed I, " that is no answer to my question-Will you go?" The old lady took off her spectacles, wiped, and put them on again, drew forth her snuff-box, extracted a pinch, and slowly returned the tabatière to its resting-place, sighed heavily, and, fixing on me one of the saddest looks I ever saw, said in a low but meaning tone, "Non." "And why not?" I shall never go there again; it is just fifteen years since I have seen either the Palais Royal or the Tuileries, and I sincerely trust no circumstance may ever arise that would compel me to cross those hated paths more." As the poor old lady uttered these words a tear stole slowly down her sallow cheek, and her hands trembled so violently that the work fell from her fingers. Not knowing very well what to say, I remained silent, though doubtless my countenance betrayed the wonder and curiosity her manner rather than her words had excited. After an interval of several minutes, during which she was evidently endeavouring to recover her self-possession, she gazed steadily at me, aud said in a calm, composed voice, "Are you easily frightened?” “No,” replied I, “it takes a great deal to do that; but why do you ask ?" "Have you patience to listen to an old woman's story?" "Most assuredly, and thank her for it too." "Well, then, draw your chair close to mine, and do not interrupt me till I have done." I did as I was desired, and she told no tale of fiction, but a tragedy of real life, herself the heroine. On the morning of the 27th of July, 1830, I was walking with my granddaughter in the gardens of the Palais Royal; the day was remarkably beautiful, the air being clear, bright, and soft, and wholly free from those oppressive heats so usual at this season of the year. We had just drawn a couple of chairs, and I was observing to Marie how exceedingly quiet everything appeared, when a fearful yell, the simultaneous mingling of ten thousand voices, burst upon our startled ears, and at the same instant a gentleman whom I knew slightly rushed past us, exclaiming, Fly! fly they are entering the gardens by the passage; fly, fly, save yourselves! for the love of Heaven don't stay another moment, or you're lost!' and, without further explanation, he disappeared. So sudden was the transition from perfect calm and tranquillity to frightful uproar and stunning clamour, that for one minute we stood like two statues, transfixed with terror and amaze; the next, by an involuntary impulse, without exchanging either word or look, we fled as fast as our trembling feet would carry us, nor. halted until we gained the court of the house in which I then lived. My consternation was so overwhelming that I had scarcely power to notice anything, but as we turned into the Rue St. Honoré, Marie ejaculated in a breathless whisper, Grandmamma, grandmamma! see, the shops are all shut.' And so they were; in the course of those few hours the demon of rebellion had risen in all his hateful might, and Paris was once again to become the scene of terror, bloodshed, and death. Every house was closed and barricaded, and all saving the infuriated mob had deserted the streets. "As the porter was closing our court door, a man forced his way into the yard, staggered towards the foot of the staircase, gave a faint cry, and fell down-dead!" I uttered an exclamation of horror; the old lady laid her hand gently on my arm, quietly repeated the word "patientez,” and calmly proceeded with her terrible tale. "I cast my eyes upon the corpse, its limbs were frightfully convulsed, its features drawn and distorted, death had struggled hard with his victim, every line of the face was changed; but a mother needs no second look to recognise her son-it was my poor Jules! "Ah! well," continued she, "I can't cry now! my life has been one ceaseless scene of suffering, and I've wept till my poor old eyes are dim and dry; I've no tears left to shed; I wish I had, perhaps 'twere better for me. "With the aid of our concierge and his wife we managed to carry him up stairs and lay him on his bed; the blade of a broken knife was in his side; I drew it out; I have it now. Ah! they |