AN EYE FOR AN EYE.-"I MUST DIE,' SHE SAYS. WHAT YOU HAVE SAID SHOWS ME THAT THERE IS NOTHING LEFT ME BUT DEATH.' THEN THERE IS A HALF-MURMURED PRAYER, THE HOARSE SPLASH OF SUNDERED WATERS, AND CARLO DI VERGI STANDS ALONE UPON THE BANK."- SEE NEXT PAGE. Vol. XVIII., No. 1-6. AN EYE FOR AN EYE. ND who is that dazzling creature in the azure robes ?" He was then a frequent visitor at Naples, where half the women went mad over him. That was before the Vassalli had come into her titles as the last living countess. Soon after that he sickened of society, and withdrew to his mountain castle in Tuscany. He is half-brigand, half-courtier, and he is not entirely beyond reproach as to dissipation. But Naples receives him back again with open arms, as he has evidently wearied of his seclusion. No court was ever quite so gay and charming as that in which Carlo di Vergi condescends to bring his graceful presence." "But what has that to do with the countess ?" "Look at them now, and see if you have need to repeat that question. Do you observe how the Vassalli has abandoned herself to the charm of his manner-how her magnificent form yields to his embrace as they float through the waltz-that she shows attention to none of her guests save to him? And Carlo-do you remark him, too? One can see at a glance that at last Carlo has succumbed to the charms of a woman. It is known all over Naples now that he is madly, desperately in love with the countess. It is always so; these white, soulless, frozen women, without a stain, in the end yield to some sin steeped, beautiful brute like Carlo di Vergi. Afar off stretch the starlit, azure waters of the bay. Nearer spread the beautiful grounds of Villa Vassalli, "That is the hostess, Countess Vas- with the dewy boughs of orange-groves shaking out their salli." Into the admiring gaze of the first the rich swell of the music floating out from where the speaker comes a look of surprise. "She is the most magnificent creature I ever beheld !" he exclaimed. "The fame of her beauty is very great, but it fails to do her anything like justice. I was under theimpression that she was a much older woman. "She is grand, indeed, and almost the wealthiest peeress in Italy. She is as haughty and exclusive as a sovereign. The most of her time is spent at Castle Vassalli, where all her race have lived and died, and she is the last, you know. It is for only three months of the season that she recognizes the claims Society holds upon her as of the most ancient family in the country, and, withdrawing from her proud seclusion, repairs hither to her villa. During that period it becomes the scene of brilliant and gorgeous festivities. Around Naples those three months are looked forward to with the utmost anticipation, and are termed the season of the Vassalli.'" "And will she never marry?" The handsome Neapolitan shrugs his shoulders at this cagerly put question of his English friend and guest. "Had you asked me that last year at this time, I should have answered that she will never marry. My reasons? Well, Veronica Vassalli is of a family whose women are cold as ice. She herself is more brilliant and heartless than an iceberg. During her brief reign in the 'Vassalli season' there have been men, both Italians and from foreign courts, who have gone mad over her loveliness; but no one ever saw the pallor of her haughty face waver. She was thought to be as emotionless as stone. Besides, she is set apart from others by the immensity of her wealth, the power of her titles, the age and grandeur of her family. Who is there fit to mate with the last living representative of the famous Vassalli ?” "But now?" Again the Italian shrugged his shoulders. "Now there seems to be a change. Carlo di Vergi has wrought it. You remember Di Vergi five seasons ago? fragrance upon the soft gloom of the Italian night, and marble walls of the villa gleam white in the purple dusk. Under the drooping branches of the trees, with the crimson blossoms of pomegranates and the fainter, rarer bloom of the orange kissing the dark braids of maidens, stroll many a high-born lover, weary of the brilliance and the heat and the frivolous wit of the gilded salons from which they have escaped. In a secluded glad of the garden, down close to the azure gleaming of the sea, sits the great lady, Countess Vassalli. But over her appearance has come a wondrous change. The weary, royal grace of her usual manner is vanished; the regal, golden head droops upon the lovely bosom, and the dusky eyes are warm with a misty radiance that never before brightened them until Carlo di Vergi came to her. Carlo himself kneels by her side, his dark, desperate face upturned to hers in the dim gleam of shaded lanterns, bathed in a rapt, idolatrous passion that seems to touch with obscurity the deep lines traced in it by years of sin. From his lips pour words of passionate eloquence, that scarcely do justice to the fierce but sincere love that at last possesses him. At last the woman is roused from her sweet silence and inactivity, and lightly places her hand upon the tremulous lips of her lover. "Cease," she murmurs, but a smile trembles upon her haughty mouth. "Though you love me, you need not blaspheme." "Blaspheme !" he pants. "Why should it be blasphemy to call you my life, heaven, all? It is just this that you have grown to be to me-my all in all! And am nothing to you? Will you not speak, if only one little word, and tell me that you are not indifferent to me ?" I Still the lovely woman hesitates. The old pride and coldness in this moment struggle hard for dominion. To one of her haughty and reserved nature it is not an easy thing to lay down a lifelong sovereignty and come under the sway of a new dominion, even be it that of love. "Ah, this is unendurable cruelty," murmurs her lover. “I entreat you, madame, put me out of my suspense. Is there in your heart no semblance of love for me?" But the burst of joy and gratitude that she evidently expects is not forthcoming. He puts her from him. Then she sees how hard and dark his face is. Uncon "What is it ?" she murmurs. Her voice is almost inaudible. "I have come to say good-by to you, Yesondè. ” His voice is severe and harsh. All over his handsome countenance are those queer, hard lines, unintelligible to the child, but which none the less are her death-sentence. There is a great and pitiful change in her little dark face; her lips are white-her eyes very wide and a trifle wild, as she stares at him in silence. "I confess," whispers the countess, "that I am not in-sciously her hand seeks her breast, where it cliches. different to you-nay, my lord, hear me through !" as the enraptured lover would have folded her to his breast; "but you must remember, if you know anything of my race, that the one dark phase of our character is jealousy. I admit that this weakness has never before troubled me. But now "- a great crimson wave of color sweeps over the lovely face, testifying to the love that has transformed her, while the proud, calm voice grows tremulous. "I feel the taint of my race! My lord, I know that many an Italian noble has pages in his life that no woman whom he respects may peruse. There.ore it is not into your past that I seek to look. But I will ask you, before giving answer to your suit, is there anything now in your life of which I might be jealous? I am a proud woman, and no matter what were my feelings for him, I could listen to no man who came to me fresh from love-tales to another, be she ever so noble or ever so lowly." The flush and the passion have left Carlo's dusky face; it has grown very gray and set; he has risen to his feet and stands looking down at her-this dazzling, maddening woman who has filled his world-weary love-sated being with a pagan passion, and for an instant his teeth bite his full, scarlet under-lip. Then : "Madame," he says, "my present life is welcome to be bared for your perusal. And, could you look into the past, you would see there no love, no emotion of which you need be jealous. By the heavens above! you are the first woman I have ever loved." An hour before the golden dawn he leaves her, though the revelry still continues. She has reserved her answer for the future, but he cannot doubt its favor. He tells himself that she is his, while at that thought even in the sweet, silent glades of the forest, through which he wends his way, a flush of passion mounts his swarthy face, and his eyes gleam brightly-she is his, if Ah, if ! Ever versatile as his favor has been in the past, are his emotions now; and his flushed countenance swiftly pales, and his teeth crush tightly a savage oath, while a dangerous fire comes into his glance. 66 "I am going away," he continues, in that pitiless voice. "I owe you many obligations for your kindness. You have made the past weeks very pleasant; but it was only for a little while, and it is all past now, and we will each go our way, just as if we had never met. You must know that with men of the world these things are very frequent and very natural. Here, Yesondè, is a trifle to buy yourself gewgaws." He thrusts a well-filled purse in her hands. Her fingers close over it mechanically. All the blood has receded from her brown face, and her large eyes are filled with the appalling agony of an animal pierced to the heart, and of a vast, terrified wonder. "But you said that you loved me," she says, finally, in a dazed, stricken way. "Well, perhaps for the moment. But-can't you understand these things? I will spare you as much as I can; if I am indelicate you press me to it." He spoke lightly, carelessly, and the child stands there, in one moment crushed for all eternity-she who had fallen, without a thought of resistance, under the charm of his manner and his beauty, that have ruined the peace of more than one court belle. And he looks at her unmoved. His soul, filled with the riotous passion born of the dazzling splendor of the Vassalli, has no room for aught else—no space even for pity-for this crushed little flower that, chancing to stumble upon, he plucked in an idle moment and now ruthlessly tosses aside. "And, Yesondè," he resumes, "it is particularly neces It is not too late," he mutters. "As yet she has sary for my future plans that this affair of ours should be heard nothing, or she would have mentioned it." Vight has again fallen over the Italian country. It is not to the Villa Vassalli with its festivities and banquets, that we now take the reader; but to the sweet, dim, leafy aisles of a forest, situated some miles back from Naples, and upon whose sylvan solitude falls no taint of her vice and evil and riotous mirth. Through the trembling leaves pierce the light from moon and stars; in the noiselessly - flowing river they live again, among the sleepy lilies and the water-plants. Along the edge the water-fowls anon dip their beaks in the silent pools, while from the greater depths of the forest come the wild, melancholy cries of nightbirds. At last, through the trees comes a massive figure, and pauses upon the bank of the stream where the light falls unobstructed from the heavens. It is Carlo di Vergi. Then up from a shaded knoll springs a little form, flying like a bird into Carlo's arms, while the bare, brown arms are wound tightly round his haughty throat, and the small face, laughing and winsome, archly defiant, presses close to his own. kept secret. If you bury it in your heart, and seal your lips upon it, you shall be recompensed finally. I will never lose sight of you, but direct that a large sum shall yearly be paid you. If not "-he goes nearer her and his eyes, gathering a sudden fierce wrath, look down into the heartsick misery of her own in terrible menace— people have died for a less offense than that." 66 At last the poor little stricken face wakes up. Into it rushes a fierce anger as the ignorant, untutored soul realizes the injury done it. So great is its vindictive rage that Carlo shudders for his future. This enraged, tempestuous creature is calculated to wreck his life if she confronts the countess in this manner. "There is a woman in this!" she cries, sharply, while her whole form is convulsed with pain and anger. "Some woman has robbed me! Who is she ?" In a moment Count Carlo is carried away with her passion. "The Countess Vassalli," he replies, involuntarily. The small figure seems to shiver and contract like a tender blossom over which a north blast blows; the eyes distend and grow desperate in their look; the face grows even more ashen as the anger swiftly flies from it. It would seem as if of a sudden she had become resigned to the inevitable. Her pallid lips move stiffly. AN EYE FOR AN EYE. "SHE HAS FALLEN FACE DOWNWARD IN THE BOAT." "Does she love you?" she queries. Into the countenance of her companion rushes a glad triumph-a sweet, nameless ecstasy-that seem to banish its evil. "As she loves her life," he says, softly. A great wordless cry sounds from the girl, and she covers her face with her hands. When she again raises itthat poor little brown, quivering face-it has grown strong and brave and solemn as a martyr's. "I must die !" she says. "What you have said shows me that there is nothing left for me but death." Carlo starts; his eyes grow eager and bright. It would end all trouble and perhaps save him from murder. But he says not a word, merely watches the girl, whose brave, steady eyes are now looking unflinchingly at the river. Then there is a halfmurmured prayer, the hoarse splash of sundered waters, and Carlo di Vergi stands alone upon the bank. The water-lilies quiver and sway, and the dewdrops are shaken like tears from their petals. Into the wailing voice of the nightbird has crept a note like a sob, and the wind sighs tremulously among the reeds and the river-plants. With a smile that holds all the glory of his love, all the anticipations of his coming rapture, the man turns and leaves the spot. "And how is Di Vergi progressing with the Vassalli ?" queries the Englishman, some three months later. "Favorably in the extreme," is the reply of his Italian friend. "He is her constant attendant-her very serf. Naples has never seen such a case of complete infatuation; he is mad over her, and cares not if the whole world sees his madness. He seems to live only in her presence, to have merged his very identity in hers. And sheshe likes him so well that the season of the Vassalli is far past, and yet she lingers at her villa. Never before has she been known to do this. Little wonder that she loves |