"'Buenas noches, Don Juan.'

"And the former, to whom the voice was not new, but who, in that moment, could not remember whose it was, replied in his native tongue, in which the wounded man had spoken:

"'God and the Holy Virgin keep you in their guard, brave man: you, as it seems, are wounded; suffer patiently; I pray God for your health.... With a little price you have acquired an immortal fame.' ...

"'The price is not little;—but no matter, Don John, you do not seem to recognise me.'

"'It seems to me!... But can it be possible!... Don Miguel?' ...

"'De Cervantes Saavedra, at your service.'

"'What! Don Miguel? Give me your hand.'

"'I have already given it to you, Don John; if it could grow again, by my faith, I would give it to you again.'

"And the wounded man showed in the dark his mutilated arm wrapped in bloody linen. Don John then recognised in him the soldier who had supported him when falling and in danger of his life; he was silent, and had it not been for the darkness, we should have seen the unconquerable captain weep. After a short pause, Don John resumed in a moved voice:

"'And when did you arrive? And why did you not present yourself?'

"Don Miguel replied:

"'I arrived late, because, thanks to the sacred college of the Muses,[59] of whom I confess myself a most unworthy priest, I had not money enough to pay for a horse or carriage to go from Genoa to Naples; and God knows how I grieved about it, for fear of not arriving in time; but as it pleased Our Lady, I reached the army in time for the review which you held at Gomenizze. I had resolved to place myself during the battle at your side, prepared to defend with my life the most valiant champion of Christianity, and the noblest blood of Spain. Fortune, kind to me for this once, assented fully to my design, and I ought to thank her, if, having resigned my life to her, she restored it to me with one hand the less. It seemed then better to me not to discover myself, for if death spared me, I could have pressed your honored hand, and rejoiced in your glory; if, on the contrary, it was destined that I should fall, you, being ignorant of it, would not have grieved for me; and, finally, if we had both died, we should now be together in the presence of God.'

"These simple words, yet full of majesty and greatness, filled us with wonder; when a Spaniard interrupted our holy silence, observing:—'Who would have believed we should meet our Poet among the warriors of Lepanto?'—To which observation Don Miguel calmly replied:

"'Sir knight, your wonder would cease, if you would for a moment consider that all that which appears to us great, noble, and glorious, is poetry. Our Don John ought to be hailed as the greatest Poet of Spain.... There are two kinds of Poets—those who enact glorious things, and those who sing them. Don John has given us the subject of the poem—now who will write for him the noble Epic? Ah! Lord ... not I ... for I am not equal to the task.'

"Thus met the two choicest spirits that Spain ever produced: both very great and both very unhappy, and held in little repute in that country, which shall have fame among posterity principally because it was their native place.

"As Veniero had foreseen, a terrible storm raged during the night. The burning galleys, blazing more than ever, now appeared upon the summit of the waves, now disappeared; some, leaning sideways, moved rapidly on the surface of the water.... Indeed they looked like demons, who issuing from hell had come to gather souls, and to exult over the immense slaughter in the place of combat!—On the morrow, thousands of corpses were washed on shore, and the ocean rolled on as in the first days of creation: the swelling surge breaking against the shore, seemed to say:—'O land, take back your children; behold! with a breath of my nostrils I have repulsed this bloody and cruel dust, which you call humanity. If your children love to furrow my face, I soon close up this furrow, so that none can find the trace of it. If I bear them on my back, I do it as a boy with playthings, in order to divert myself, and then I break them: behold, I have purified myself from them; the trace of the slaughter of Lepanto remains upon me as the trace of the halcyon's flight through the air. You, my unworthy sister, allow their cities to stand, and, daily torn and tortured in a thousand ways, dare not revenge yourself but from your open furrows send forth everlasting fruits to nourish them; come! be wise once, open your bosom and bury them all. If when greatly angered, you overthrow some city, or swallow some chain of mountains, your wrath seems more like that of a mother who chides, than an executioner who punishes. I, once, came to wash you with a universal ablution, and would gladly do it again, for I see that you are more stained than before, if the word of God did not repulse me from your shores. Come, beg the Creator with me to revoke the command, and I will clean you for ever with the multitude of my waters,—with a deluge—for this time;—without Noah.' ... Thus my affected fancy imagined.—How much all Christendom exulted, you all know.

"The Holy Pontiff ordered a great part of the wall near the gate of Capena to be thrown down, in order to admit through that opening Marcantonio Colonna into Rome drawn in a triumphal chariot like the ancient Cæsars to the Capitol, where there was presented to him a great amount of money, which, accepted by him, he, thanking the Pope, deposited in trust to be used as a dowry for many poor and orphan maidens. Thus, rich only with increase of fame, Marcantonio returned home, so much more the greatest, as he was the only one: a truly Roman soul! The Venetians, whose soldiers fallen in battle amounted to two thirds of the whole armada, would not consent to mourn for the valorous men, who, fighting for the faith, had died for it with weapons in their hands, leaving immortal fame; and their relatives appeared at the public thanksgivings which were rendered to God, dressed in brocade and other precious robes: they also, a Latin race! What you may not have heard, is this; that Philip of Spain was very sorry for the victory, reproaching his brother for having risked the forces of the kingdom, without any advantage resulting to him from the victory; and while the Holy Pontiff, in the effusion of his heart, hailed Don John with the words of the Evangelist:—Fuit homo missus a Deo, cui nomen erat Joannes;—there were some in the king's council, who dared even to propose whether it were advisable to have his head cut off. Even Philip himself was ashamed of the impudent cowardice of his counsellers; a greater cowardice than he himself would have wished. Don John escaped with his life, but humiliated by the undeserved rebuke, grief and indignation now oppress him;—and this was Spanish envy!—What benefit did the Christians derive from so many dead, so much valor, and such a wonderful victory? Nothing, but fame. O glory, inebriation of great souls, how you fall from estimation and desire, when you are made the tool of kings, cool calculators of noble passions! Every one thinks of himself, and for to-day; for the morrow he neither knows nor cares. Venice on the sea, Poland on the land, remain abandoned like two lost bulwarks against the forces of the enemies of Faith. One day (may God avert the omen) these bulwarks conquered, the Christians will awake at the cries of the plundered fields, at the flames of the burning cities;—if God does not help us, in twenty years we shall be all Moslems."

Here the Duke ended his long narrative, and from around the room there rose a murmur of applause and at the same time of dread; and after the company had tarried for some time in pleasant conversation, the hour being already late, they rose from the table. The Duke dismissed them with agreeable and courteous manner, begging them to be ready on the morrow for the hunt, before the Sun should be too warm. He himself, offering his arm to his wife, accompanied her to the foot of the stairs, where, kissing her hand, with many wishes for a very good night, he withdrew.

Every one retired to his own apartment, and in expectation of a merry time for the morrow, went to rest.

In less than half an hour all seemed to be wrapt in sleep. It seemed only!—The Duke of Bracciano watched. Coming into his chamber he threw himself upon a seat, leaning his head on one hand, the other hanging down. He was pale and changed, yet did not utter a word: two beautiful white hounds with scarlet collars marked with gold about their necks, accustomed to receive his caresses, lay at his feet gazing at him, and as if to draw the attention of their master softly licked his hands. It would seem as if a fierce contest betwixt would and would not was raging in the Duke's soul, and that having examined everything, discussed the benefit or injury resulting from it, weighing all reasons for good or bad, or all those that seemed so to him, and the insult, the revenge, and the forgiveness, one might clearly discern to what conclusion he had at last arrived, when these words escaped from his lips: "It is a thing that must be done!" Then added quickly:

"Titta!"

"My Lord."

Duke Bracciano hissed from his mouth:

"Have you prepared everything?"

"I have."

A wearisome silence succeeded: the Duke first broke it saying:

"Titta!"

"My Lord."

"Ah! it would have been better to have died in the battle of Lepanto."

"It would."

"Tell me, is not my wife a handsome woman? Is she not graceful, elegant, endowed with all the gracious manners of noble birth?"

"Yes, my Lord, yes."

"And would it not seem sacrilege to extinguish in a moment with one treacherous blow so much beauty and genius?"

"It would have been better, my Lord, to have died in the battle of Lepanto!"

The Duke arose, wiping the perspiration dripping from his brow;—he walked the room restlessly: then suddenly stopping, and fixing his eyes on Titta, said:

"Do you not know better than to express wishes for things impossible to happen? Have you no better advice than this for me?—Nothing, nothing. Are you a man, or only the echo of a cave?"

"Did you not say, it must be done? How can you expect servants to advise, when they know that the master would hold their advices as a resistance to his own desires?"

"Titta, you are right;—with me you always have the grave offence of being in the right.... Is all that I ordered ready?..."

"Everything ... you may see for yourself ... by looking up...."

"It is all right ... no matter ... I trust you...." And instead of raising his eyes he fixed them on the floor. "Now take these two hounds, and go as silently as you can to the room of the Duchess; knock softly ... and say to her ..." and he whispered in his ear. Titta nodded assent. The Duke then said in his usual voice:

"Using courteous words; in a pleasant manner. Do you understand?... Go now...."

But as Titta made some delay, he repeated:

"Go!..."

Titta took the hounds, but before he crossed the threshold of the door he stopped, and turning towards the Duke, said slowly:

"Must I go, my Lord?"

"Go ... go.... It must be done!"

And Titta went.—He ascended the staircase softly, and approached the room of the Duchess, and scarcely had he knocked, before a voice from within called:

"Who is there?"

"I come by the Duke's order, my Lady, to beg you to accept these two hounds that he sends you as a present, hoping you for his sake will hold them dear; and desires also that to-morrow you will observe in the chase if they are active and fleet;—he also prays you to come to him for a short time, wishing to see you, after so many years of absence, without witnesses."

Titta, on entering, saw the Duchess with the Lady Lucrezia Frescobaldi kneeling before an image of the Blessed Virgin, reading prayers from a Missal; and he said to himself: "Better thus, she is provided with sacrament for the great journey."

Isabella stood up, and said to Lucrezia:

"Should I, or should I not, go to sleep with my husband? What say you?"

Lady Frescobaldi, shrugging her shoulders, replied:

"Do whatever you wish; he is your husband still."[60]

"I will go then."

The poor Duchess descended slowly, but without trembling.

Lady Lucrezia, moved by curiosity, or compassion, or rather by both, stirred from her usual impassibility, decided to follow her unobserved in the distance. Scarcely did she see her enter her husband's room, ere she hastened her steps, and placed her ear at the door.

She heard merry greetings and cheerful salutations.

"God be thanked, it begins well,"—she murmured.

Then listened again, and heard a sound of laughter, and kisses given and returned.

"Better and better ..."

And holding her breath, she still listened eagerly.—But we will say no more, only repeat with the Poet:

Lady Lucrezia returned on tip-toe to her own room, saying to herself: "I think that there will be no storm in the house after all, or if there should be one, we will see it terminate with some lightning perhaps, but without thunderbolt."

Half an hour, or a little more, had passed, from the time in which Lady Lucrezia left the door of the Duke, when it opened, and Titta came out, crossing the hall which led to the door of Troilo's apartment, and arriving there, knocked with his knuckles upon it, without much caution.

Troilo, although there seemed to be no cause for fear, yet either on account of the unusual excitement, the warmth of the day, or from too much drinking, his blood had become so heated, that, tossing about the bed, he could not sleep. Therefore hearing the knock he jumped out of bed, and opened the door.

"What is it, Titta?"

"Sir Troilo, my Lord the Duke ordered me to say to you, that he has not been able to sleep...."

"Just my case!..."

"So much the better;—therefore he begs to know whether you would not like to keep him company a little while, and have a little chat ... to cheer each other...."

"Exactly what I should like! Wait till I dress, and I will go with you."

And putting on what garments first came to his hands, he was soon ready. Titta preceded him with a lighted taper, but when they arrived at the Duke's door, drawing aside, and bending low, he said respectfully:

"Walk in, your Excellency!"

Troilo having entered, Titta shut the door, and locked it, putting the key in his pocket; and when the former had entered the next room, he carefully closed that door also, remaining outside.

Troilo on entering the room saw the Duke sitting beside a table near the bed, and, whether it was fancy, or the effect of the fight, he thought he seemed as if grown ten years older since an hour ago. The Duke, without lifting his eyes, said:

"Troilo, sit down."

This voice does not contain a threat, it has nothing of rancor in it, it is peaceful and low,—and yet it does not seem to issue from the lips;—uttered thus from the inmost depth of the heart as from the bottom of a sepulchre, it had the power of infusing a chill through the frame of Troilo.

And Troilo sat down.

"Troilo, I have words to say which it behooves me to speak, and you to listen to them in the shadows of darkness; ... in the mysterious silence of night.... Troilo, after three long years of absence I return home.... But is this to which I have returned my home? Can I sleep safely in it? Can I sit without suspicion at my own table?..."

Troilo, thus taken by surprise, was silent.

"Troilo! When I departed from home, knowing that the woman who was my wife ... who is my wife, was changeable in her fancy, of manners more free and loose than becomes a haughty lady, the fault perhaps of her education ... ready to pass all limits ... somewhat petulant and obstinate ... I hated to confide the treasure of my honor to, I will not say unfaithful, but certainly dangerous hands.—In whom could I better trust than my own blood? I therefore chose you, I intrusted to you my honor, which is also yours, and begged you with tears in my eyes to keep a good and vigilant watch over it.... Do you remember it, Troilo? Is it not true? Would you deny it?... And even if you would, could you?"

"It is true."

"And do you remember the promises which you made then? Have you always remembered them? Now tell me: how have you kept your loyal watch over my wife?"

The Duke kept his arm with closed hand stretched upon the table; the muscles of his forehead were horribly swollen, his eyebrows frowning, and his eyes sparkled under them through the ruffled hair like fire burning in the midst of a thorn bush. Troilo still kept silent; and the Duke said again:

"How have you kept your loyal watch over my wife?"

As there was no reply, he continued:

"If I listen to the reports which reached me even in Rome, indeed my reputation is lost without remedy; my house is full of shame: henceforth I cannot hear the name of my wife spoken without suspecting that it is done through insult or mockery. Virginio will not be able to hear his mother's name without bowing his face for shame. We heard shameful things, cousin, and such at which nature itself would be horrified ... such that no man could possibly bear, and which I neither can, nor know, nor wish, by any means to suffer."

"My Lord!" ... replied Troilo with faltering voice; "could a knight like you, gifted with the best discernment, as all know ... experienced in the world ... give credit to such false accusations ... to the words of idle and malicious men? The people generally repute us happy, and those whom envy gnaws love to hurl poisoned arrows at us. Let us make them weep, they say; thus they will be our equals in tears at last."

"You speak truly; but the shameful report was confirmed by such a person that now I can no longer doubt it."

"And do you believe it worthy of faith?"

"I leave you to judge. Isabella herself confessed it to me."

"What! Isabella?"

"Isabella."

"Your wife?"

"She herself ... my wife. Now tell me, Troilo, ... is not your name Orsini? Is not the blood which runs in your veins of the same race as mine?—Answer!"

"Why reply to what you know yourself?"

"Because it behooves me at this solemn moment to hear it from your own lips, and be assured that you remember it, that you feel convinced of it.... Here I find myself surrounded by traitors,—for with the exception of my own relatives ... I dare not hope to escape being betrayed. You are then of my blood?... Now give me advice ... Isabella!... must I forgive, or kill her?" ...

"And shall I advise you?"

"Yes."

"But neither I nor any one else can believe me capable of that. You have more wisdom than I."

"I do not think so; and even were it so, do you not know that in such occasions man loses his wisdom? Come, I command you to advise me."

"And then ... consider, Giordano, how merciful is the Lord ... and how mild and clement appear those famous men who resemble Him.... Let the weakness of nature, the age of the woman, the bad examples among which she was educated, obtain mercy in your eyes; ... recall to your mind what you said to me a little while ago of her changeable mind, her poetic imagination, the time, the place, the occasion;—and even ... fate, Giordano, since we are all governed by an unconquerable fate—and use mercy ... Isabella can no longer present herself before you in her innocence, you can never love her again ... and perhaps not even esteem her ... and yet there remains a consolation to the injured one, bitter, it is true, but yet desirable, that is, to feel himself undeserving of the insult, and to see the offender truly repentant."

"You see that you do not want wisdom! You certainly do not lack eloquence!... And I thought so! In truth I would follow your advice, but one idea keeps me from it, which is this: in such an affair is my honor only at stake? Ought we not to consider the honor of the family as an entail, which I am not allowed to alienate, and not even diminish, but which I must restore to my children as pure and intact as I received it from my ancestors? Doing otherwise, does it not seem to you that some day I may hear my ancestors say to me:—what have you done with our patrimony?—and my children:—This is not our inheritance?"

"For my own part I believe that it is noble to seek and accomplish a difficult revenge; but it seems to me also a proof of a generous soul to relinquish the revenge that can be executed by merely wishing it. To conquer others is a praiseworthy thing, but to conquer one's own passions is manly and divine."

"And for this reason too would I be almost willing to pardon her; ... only that another motive distresses me, and closes my heart to mercy; and it is the refusal of my wife to reveal the name of her seducer."

"And do you not know it?"

"No.... Do you?"

"I? No."

"So I thought, for you had other things in your mind than watching my wife; and you have committed a great wrong against me and my house, Troilo, a wrong which I know not how to forgive you. But perhaps the fault was not entirely on your side, it was rather in a great measure my own, for I, knowing you to be young, desirous of glory, and of a noble heart, should have allowed you to attend to other things, rather than be the eunuch of a palace."

"And does she then refuse to reveal the name?"

"Neither by prayer, nor threat, nor hope of pardon was I able to induce her to reveal it."

"Indeed this is a grave fault.... And you tried all means to make her speak?"

"All."

"There, you see then how difficult it is to give advice when one is ignorant of all the particulars:—if I had known her obstinacy in this particular before, I would have advised you differently."

"Indeed!"

"Rather the contrary."

"You agree with me then! I am inevitably forced to use severity: would that I knew at least the man who did not scruple to contaminate my house while I was shedding my blood for the Faith ... the man whom neither the respect due to my house ... nay, more than that, the fear of my sword did not deter from this abominable crime!—Ah! I would think myself less unhappy if I could plunge my hands in his blood, and tear forth his heart.... And, believe me, Troilo, I would do it, as true as there is a God ... but the coward hides himself.... Oh, who art thou, who wounded me so mortally, and did not take my life? What is thy name?—Show thyself!—Alas! how painful is the offence done by an obscure, abject, and unknown person, against whom we cannot revenge ourselves, or revenging we may be more stained by the revenge itself than by the insult."

"Indeed such offences deserve an atonement of blood."

"But since I cannot shed that of the hated seducer ... what think you?"

"It seems to me...."

"No ... no faltering," said the Duke rising to his feet; "here it is necessary that you should reveal to me your whole mind."

"Then...."

"Then?... Why do you hesitate? Here no one can overhear us ... no one."

"Then ... the jealous honor of the family requires that ... that Isabella should disappear from the world."

"It is well," replied the Duke; and stretching his hand to the curtains of the bed, he drew them aside, adding:—"Behold ... I have done it."

"Vengeance of God!" cried Troilo, rising and staggering back two or three steps with his hands in his hair.

She who had been Isabella Orsini reclined on the bed in a sitting posture: her hair loose and dishevelled, her arms stretched out, her face black, her eyes open, intent, and almost bursting from their sockets ... a fine rope yet girded her delicate neck, the ends of which were lost in the darkness of the room, and fastened in the ceiling.

Miserable spectacle of crime and perfidy!

"Thus perished Isabella dei Medici, who would have made herself and others happy, if heaven had granted to her either less beauty, or greater virtue, or better parents."[62]

The Duke, also as pale as death, repressing with violent effort the passion which agitated his soul, stood immovable in his place where with one hand holding the curtains back, and stretching the other towards his cousin, he thus spoke:

"Now my bed has become deserted ... for every woman will fear that it will be turned into a scaffold;—my house is deserted, for the father cannot live with the son whose mother he has strangled.... Days of sorrow and infamy,—sleepless nights, filled with remorse and fear,—bitter death ... terrible judgement of God,—behold the peace which thou hast given me, Troilo!—Thou, and no one else!—I know thee ... fully ... iniquitous and abject man ... and I feel and know that death must have been less bitter to this woman, who was my wife, than the knowledge of having lost the dignity of a Princess, of a wife and of a mother ... for so miserable and degraded a creature as thou art.—Wretch! The secret died not with thy accomplice ... no ... nor with her murder did I lose the trace of the traitor.—Now it is for thee to die. I could and should abstain from taking thy miserable soul from thy body with this honorable hand of a knight; a villain is enough for a villain;—but as thou wilt suffer a deserved death, I do not wish that thou shouldst complain of the manner of it, if we ever meet again in the next world."

Thus saying, he took two drawn swords, that lay at the feet of the corpse, and throwing one of them on the ground towards Troilo, added:

"Take it up, and defend thyself; and since thou hast lived as a traitor, die at least as a gentleman."

Like a bow bent by a strong hand, that snapping the cord straightens violently, thus Troilo starting up, as if possessed by a demon, gave a leap towards the open window behind him, leaned with both hands upon the seat, and with one leap jumped out of it. As fortune willed, although he fell on his head, he received no injury, on account of the window not being high from the ground. Starting again upon his feet, he rushed precipitately down the staircase.

The Duke, seeing this act, with no less fury rushed after him through the window, sword in hand.

Not a word—not a threat—there was only heard the sound of hurried steps upon the stairs.

Troilo, losing breath, and out of practice in violent exercises, would have easily been overtaken by the Duke, had not the latter, stumbling against a projecting step, fallen headlong down the marble stairs, and bruised himself badly. The sword escaped from his hand, and falling down from step to step, broke the silence of the night with a dreadful clatter, and glided far away into the public road.

Not only was the Duke unable to pursue Troilo further, but he could hardly raise himself again; yet leaning his body upon his elbows fixed in the ground, he turned his head to where Troilo was fast disappearing, and sent after him through the darkness of the night this dreadful menace:

"Since thou hast not desired to die like a knight, many months will not pass before thou shalt die like a dog!"

Titta rushed to the aid of his master: lifted him up, and with loving care washed and bandaged his bruises; then placed him, raving feverishly, upon a bed in the antechamber.

He went afterwards to Lady Lucrezia, who, overcome by the dreadful event, much more so to her as not expected, remained insensible for more than an hour; and as long as she lived never recovered from the shock, nor was she ever seen to smile or rejoice again. Having returned to her senses, Titta placed himself before her, and with his right forefinger pointing in the middle of his eyebrows, proffered very slowly the following words:

"Lady!... Listen attentively!... Our Lady the Duchess died suddenly ... of apoplexy ... whilst she was washing her head with cold water, ... by which accident ... she fell into your arms ... and died before we had time to call for any help.... Be careful, Lady, of mistaking, as you love your life!... The notices to be given, of her death, to the several Courts—already prepared since yesterday—say exactly this. Be then on your guard...."[63]

Titta then removed the body to the apartment belonging to the Duchess, and arranged it upon the bed. Lady Lucrezia sent for Inigo, and told him word for word what Titta had said. The major-domo glancing at the corpse, understood the case too well, and taking with his left hand the hem of the sheet, covered its blackened face, whilst with his right he wiped a tear from his eyes.—Inigo, the major-domo, reputed a heart of stone, wept!

"May God receive in peace the soul of this poor Lady!" said he, and with a deep sigh he left the room.

A great and solemn funeral was performed over the body of Isabella: servants, relatives—her husband and brothers, put on mourning. Over the bier was recited a funeral oration, composed by an academician of the Crusca, in classic Tuscan language.

The price of her blood was, in part payment, and in part arrangement of the Duke's debts, and this is narrated by Galluzzi.[64]

Settimanni also informs us that the Duke of Bracciano obtained from the munificence of his brother-in-law even a greater reward in the following October, which was the donation of the estate of Poggio a Baroncelli, to-day called Poggio Imperiale.[65]

But God's judgment rewarded to the Duke according to his deserts. He died a horrible death; his soul was contaminated with new crimes, for blood calls for blood, as it is with wine; and that judgment was entailed, so that his descendants also feared it. And if fortune will grant us time and health, the subsequent history of the life of the Duke of Bracciano shall form the subject of another narrative.

The following passage from the History of Galluzzi will inform the reader of the fate of Troilo Orsini.

"The Grand-Duke, determined, however, to sound the opinions of Queen Catherine, sent his Secretary to that Court under the pretext of collecting the balance of the money which he had loaned to king Charles IX., for it was then due. The Secretary's commission extended no further, but liberty had also been given him, to reproach, according to the occasion, the Queen's ill will against the Medici house, and the injury done the Grand-Duke. The Secretary having arrived in Paris, and delivered his commission, the Queen said to him:—I know not how to satisfy this desire of the Grand-Duke, for he lends to the King of Spain a million of gold at a time, and with us he even demands back such a little sum.—The Secretary remonstrated that if the King of Spain had been helped with large sums, he had at least shown more esteem for the Grand-Duke than she had done, for she had ill-treated him, and done him an injury which he did not deserve.—This I confess, said she, and I did it because the Grand-Duke has no respect for me, rather with much grief to myself and to the King he has caused the assassination under our own eyes, of Troilo Orsini, and others, which is not right, this Kingdom being free to any one to reside here.—The Secretary replied, that Orsini and others, having been guilty of grave offences against the Grand-Duke, it was not becoming in her, who was of his own blood, to protect, and aid them with money.—Enough, replied the Queen, write to the Grand-Duke not to continue thus any longer, and particularly not to order any assassination to be committed in this Kingdom, for the King, my son, will not allow it."

THE END.

TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH.

An Eastern Tale, in Verse. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich, author of "Babie Bell, and other Poems." Elegantly printed, and bound in muslin, price 50 cents.

DEAR EXPERIENCE.

A Tale. By G. Ruffini, author of "Doctor Antonio," "Lorenzo Benoni," &c. With illustrations by Leech, of the London Punch. Muslin, price $1 00.

FOLLOWING THE DRUM;

Or, Glimpses of Frontier Life. Being brilliant Sketches of Recruiting Incidents on the Rio Grande, &c. By Mrs. Egbert L. Vielé. Muslin, price $1 00.

COSMOGONY;

Or, the Mysteries of Creation. A remarkable book, being an Analysis of the First Chapter of Genesis. By Thomas A. Davies. Octavo, muslin, price $2 00.

NOTHING TO WEAR.

A Satirical Poem. By William Allen Butler. Profusely and elegantly embellished with fine Illustrations by Augustus Hoppin. Muslin, price 50 cents.

THE SPUYTENDEVIL CHRONICLE.

A brilliant Novel of Fashionable Life in New York. A Saratoga Season Flirtations, &c. A companion to the "Potiphar Papers." Muslin, price 75 cents.

BROWN'S CARPENTER'S ASSISTANT.

The best practical work on Architecture, with Plans for every description of Building. Illustrated with over 200 Plates. Strongly bound in leather, price $5 00.

THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.

An Authentic History of that great work; with Biographies, Maps, steel and wood engravings, Portraits, &c. Dedicated to Cyrus W. Field. Muslin, price $1 00.

ISABELLA ORSINI.

A new and brilliant novel. By F. D. Guerrazzi, author of "Beatrice Cenci;" translated by Monti, of Harvard College. With steel portrait. Muslin, price $1 25.

K. N. PEPPER PAPERS.

Containing Verses and Miscellaneous Writings of one of the first humorous contributors to "Knickerbocker Magazine." With Illustrations. Muslin, price $1 00.

THE AMERICAN CHESS BOOK.

Prepared by Paul Morphy, Louis Paulsen, and the chief Members of the late New York Chess Congress for 1857. Muslin, 12mo. Fully illustrated. (In press).

THE CAPTIVE NIGHTINGALE,

And other Tales. Translated from the German of Krummacher. A charming book for the Young. Fully illustrated. Muslin, gilt back, &c., price 50 cents.

STORIES FOR CHILDHOOD.

By Aunt Hatty (Mrs. Coleman). Beautifully bound in cloth gilt, and profusely illustrated. Put up in boxes containing 12 assorted volumes. Price per box, $4 00.

GOOD CHILDREN'S LIBRARY.

By Uncle Thomas. A dozen charming stories, beautifully illustrated; bound in cloth, gilt backs. Put up in boxes containing 12 assorted volumes. Price per box, $4 00.

HUSBAND vs. WIFE.

A Domestic Satirical Novel. By Henry Clapp, Jr. Illustrated by A. Hoppin, in colors, on cream paper, in Illuminated Missal style. Muslin, price 60 cents.

ASPENWOLD.

An Original Novel, of interest and merit. By an American writer. Illustrated with original designs on wood by Howard. Muslin, price $1 25.

LECTURES OF LOLA MONTEZ,

Including her "Autobiography," "Wits and Women of Paris," "Comic Aspect of Love," "Beautiful Women," "Gallantry," &c. Muslin, steel portrait, price $1 00.

LIFE OF HUGH MILLER,

Author of "Schools and Schoolmasters," "Old Red Sandstone," &c. From the Glasgow edition. Prepared by Thomas N. Brown. Muslin, price $1 00.

KNAVES AND FOOLS;

Or, Friends of Bohemia. A Satirical Novel of Literary and Artistic Life in London. By E. M. Whitty, of the London Times. Illustrated. Muslin, price $1 25.

THE COTTAGE COOK BOOK;

Or, Housekeeping made Easy and Economical in all its Departments. A most practical and useful work. By Emily Thornwell. Muslin, price 75 cents.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

A valuable Book of Amusement and Instruction for the Young, containing Stories upon every subject. Illustrated by Kenny Meadows. Muslin, price 75 cents.

EROS AND ANTEROS;

Or, the Bachelor's Ward. One of the very best of Modern Novels. A story of strong interest, and written with true poetic feeling. Muslin, price $1 00.

DOESTICKS' LETTERS.

Being a compilation of the Original Letters of Q. K. P. Doesticks, P. B. With many comic tinted illustrations, by John McLenan. Muslin, price $1 00.

PLU-RI-BUS-TAH.

A song that's by-no-author. Not a parody on "Hiawatha." By Doesticks. With 150 humorous illustrations by McLenan. Muslin, price $1 00.

THE ELEPHANT CLUB.

An irresistibly droll volume. By Doesticks, assisted by Knight Russ Ockside, M.D. One of his best works. Profusely illustrated by McLenan. Muslin, price $1 00.

NOTHING TO SAY.

A Satire in Verse, which has "Nothing to Do" with "Nothing to Wear." By Doesticks, P. B. With Illustrations by McLenan. Muslin, price 50 cents.

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.

A very charming Novel, containing the very elements of success. Written by Mrs. Juliet H. L. Campbell. Handsomely bound in muslin, 12mo., price $1 00.

LIFE OF SPENCER H. CONE.

Being Memoirs of the late Pastor of the First Baptist Church in the city of New York. Prepared by his Sons. Steel Portrait. Muslin, price $1 25.