Chapter IV: Part IV: The Twilight of the Gods (3)

With stealthy haste, Danny Mann got out his boat; and, making his way to the cottage of the Colleen Bawn, he informed her that Hardress had sent him to fetch her away at once. The unsuspicious Eily was filled with joy on hearing this, for she had seen and heard nothing of Hardress since the night he had left her in anger; and she eagerly stepped into Danny Mann's boat, believing that her beloved one had forgiven her, and was about to acknowledge her as his wife. The fact that Danny appeared to have been drinking somewhat heavily did not cause her any alarm for her safety; for it never entered into her trusting heart that the old boatman, who had always loved her, could ever do her harm, much less that he had deliberately bolstered his courage with drink for this very purpose.

Too soon, however, her fears were awakened; for Danny Mann, instead of taking her to the opposite shore as she had expected, hastily rowed her to a dark and lonely water cave, where he roughly bade her step out on a rock. Then he commanded her to either deliver up to him the marriage certificate which he knew she now always carried in her bosom, or be thrown by him into the lake to drown; and poor Eily, at last full of fear, implored him to have pity upon her, since she had sworn to the priest, Father Tom, that she would never part with her marriage lines.

But Danny Mann was too devoted to Hardress Cregan to be kept from his resolve by even the tearful entreaties of the fair Lily of Killarney; and still believing that he was acting in the real interests of his beloved young master, he fiercely demanded the marriage certificate, and upon Eily again firmly refusing to part with it, he pushed her remorselessly into the water.

At this moment a shot was fired, and Danny Mann, mortally wounded by his unseen assailant, fell also into the water.

The person who had fired this shot was none other than Myles-na-Coppaleen, the Colleen Bawn's peasant lover, who used this solitary water cave as a hiding-place for the kegs of whisky and other contraband goods which he smuggled from time to time; and swinging himself by means of a long rope into his secret domain at the moment of Eily's fall into the water, and seeing a moving form on the rock, he mistook it in the darkness for an otter, took aim, and fired.

He was just chuckling over the excellent shot he had made, when he noticed something white floating in the water; and soon, to his horror, recognising this as the form of his beloved Eily, he instantly dived in to her rescue. After some little difficulty he reappeared with the now unconscious girl in his arms; and placing her tenderly in his boat, he hastily rowed her away from the cave, and conveyed her to his own cabin.

Here, with great tenderness, he restored her to consciousness once more; but on learning from her that it was Danny Mann who had thrust her into the water, and whom he had himself shot in the cave in mistake for an otter, he suspected foul play, and determined to keep the girl hidden for the present, believing the old boatman to be dead.

But Danny Mann, although mortally wounded, did not die immediately; and after a long and painful effort, he managed to crawl from the cave and reach a place of safety, where aid was forthcoming. He begged his rescuers to send for Father Tom, that he might confess to him before he died; and on the arrival of the priest he told him of the whole plot, and that he had drowned Eily O'Connor in the hope of being of service to Hardress Cregan.

The unaccountable disappearance of the Colleen Bawn confirmed his story, which quickly spread; and this information coming to the ears of Corrigan, the agent, he at once went before the magistrates, and accused Hardress Cregan of complicity in the crime. An order was accordingly made out for the arrest of Hardress; and Corrigan set off with the officers of justice and soldiers for this purpose, maliciously triumphing in the revenge he could now take upon the Cregans for their contempt of him.

He led his men to the mansion of Anne Chute, where a gay company of guests had already assembled for the wedding festivities, which were even now being held; but even as the soldiers surrounded the house, Hardress Cregan, unable to keep up the deception any longer, drew the heiress away from her guests, and confessed all to her, telling her of his secret marriage with the Colleen Bawn, for whom he now deeply mourned, believing her to be dead.

Anne Chute possessed a gentle and kindly nature; and instead of spurning him, as he had expected, she had only sympathy for his sorrow, and willingly expressed her forgiveness for his conduct to herself.

It was at this moment that Corrigan entered with the officers of justice to arrest the now despairing young man for his supposed complicity in the murder of Eily O'Connor; and a scene of the wildest consternation followed. Anne Chute and all her guests declared stoutly that Hardress could not be guilty of such a horrible crime; but Corrigan triumphantly produced the glove which Danny Mann had obtained, declaring this to be the token agreed upon between the old boatman and his master that the unfortunate girl should disappear.

Hardress indignantly denied that he had ever sent such a token, declaring that though Danny Mann had indeed made the dark suggestion to him, he had instantly repelled it with horror; and Mrs. Cregan, who had been half-dazed by the shock of her son's danger, now rushed forward, and related how the old boatman had enticed her to give him the glove, thus proving beyond doubt that Hardress was entirely innocent in the matter.

Then, to the utter surprise and relief of all, there came a sudden and welcome interruption to this distressing scene; for Eily O'Connor herself entered the room, accompanied by Myles-na-Coppaleen, who, hearing of the dangerous position of Hardress Cregan, had judged this to be the right moment in which to produce the girl whose life he had saved.

With deep joy and thankfulness, Hardress clasped his beloved Eily in his arms, and introduced her to the astonished company as his lawful wife; and seeing the turn affairs had taken, Corrigan, the agent, slunk quietly out of the room.

Nor had he again the power to annoy or persecute the Cregans; for, with splendid generosity, Anne Chute insisted upon settling the matter of the mortgage as her wedding gift to Hardress and his lovely Colleen Bawn.

CARMEN

One noon-tide, during the early years of the nineteenth century, a group of light-hearted soldiers were standing together outside the guard-house in the great public square of Seville waiting for the change of guard; and as they stood there, idly watching the ever-moving crowd, they whiled away the time by making merry remarks on the passers-by.

It was a bright and lively scene, for at this time of the day the square was filled with youths and maidens just freed from morning work, who, seeking relaxation, were glad enough to sing and dance, and indulged in gay badinage one with another.

One of the soldiers without the guard-house, a brigadier named Morales, found endless amusement in watching the living panorama before him; and presently he noticed a pretty young girl, who, by her timid glances and innocent, hesitating manner, he guessed at once to be a stranger from the country.

The newcomer was indeed a humble peasant maid, by name, Micaela, who had journeyed from her village home some miles distant in search of her foster-brother, Don José, a young brigadier in the regiment now quartered at Seville, to whom she bore a message from his mother; but having made her way into the busy square, she was so much bewildered by the noisy crowd that she hardly dared to venture further.

Seeing her hesitancy, the dashing Morales swaggered forward, and asked her in easy tones whom she sought; and on learning from the trembling maiden that she wished to speak with Don José, he told her that the young brigadier would presently appear with the change of guard, and suggested that in the meantime she should accept the company of himself and his friends. But the bold, admiring glances of the gay soldiers alarmed the shy Micaela, and with a startled cry she broke from the persuading arms of Morales, and ran off to await her foster-brother's appearance in a quieter spot.

A few minutes later the guard was changed, and with the relieving party came the brigadier, Don José, a handsome youth who had some months ago left his quiet country home for the excitement and stir of a soldier's life. On being told by Morales that a pretty peasant maiden had been asking for him, Don José guessed at once that it was Micaela, and rejoiced; for having grown up together, he regarded her with much affection, and even intended to marry her, knowing this to be his mother's cherished desire.

Just as the guard was changed, the bell of a large cigarette factory at one end of the square clanged forth its noon-day chimes, and a few minutes later a noisy troop of girls employed as cigarette-makers came pouring forth from the building, laughing and chattering gaily as they mingled with the idlers in the square.

Amongst this merry throng of newcomers was a beautiful young girl of gipsy birth, named Carmen, whose dark, flashing eyes and scornful lips spoke of passionate emotions and reckless daring, and whose saucy, sparkling glances proclaimed the born coquette; and no sooner did she appear than a court of admiring youths instantly crowded around her, clamouring for her smiles and favours.

But the capricious beauty would have none of them this day, for her roving eye had fallen upon the handsome form of the young brigadier, Don José, and being greatly struck with his manly appearance, she presently went boldly forward and made acquaintance with him, declaring plainly that she liked his looks, and inviting him to meet her when next he came off duty.

Now Don José had been warned of the dangerous attractions of the lovely cigarette-girl, and so received her advances somewhat coldly; but when the saucy Carmen flung him the rose she had been wearing as she laughingly tripped away, he picked it up eagerly, enthralled by her dazzling glances in spite of himself.

At this moment Micaela appeared in the square once more, and Don José, hurrying forward, greeted her with much affection and eagerness, longing for news of his country home. The gentle peasant maiden placed in his hands a letter from his mother, and also a gift of money; and, faithful to her charge, she delivered the lonely widow's loving message, even bestowing upon him the kiss she had sent at parting.

Having thus fulfilled her quest, Micaela, still afraid of the staring crowd, departed, saying she would return again shortly; and Don José, his heart filled with tender memories of home, began to read his mother's letter. The widow besought her son not to forget his old home, but to return shortly and wed the gentle Micaela, who loved him so well and faithfully; and the young brigadier was so engrossed by the sweet visions of peaceful joy thus suggested to him, that he stood for a time lost in pleasant thought, and utterly regardless of the merry throng around him.

Presently, however, he was aroused from his reverie by loud cries and angry expostulations from amongst the cigarette-girls, and seeing that a squabble was taking place, he hurried forward with the Captain of the Guard to restore order. The reckless Carmen, ever ripe for mischief, had picked a quarrel with one of the other cigarette-makers, and her hot blood being roused by the taunts of her companion, she had quickly drawn a stiletto, and aimed a blow at her.

Seeing that the girl was wounded, the Captain of the Guard instantly ordered the fiery Carmen to be arrested, though one of her admirers himself; and then, leaving Don José in charge of the captive, he hurried into the guard-house to obtain the order for her imprisonment.

Now Carmen had no intention of going to prison; and knowing well enough that she had already attracted the handsome young brigadier, for whom a sudden passion had also grown up within her own fickle heart, she quickly determined to fascinate him still further, so that he should connive at her escape. So that when Don José tried to secure her hands with a cord, she laughingly besought him to bind her with his own arms instead, declaring saucily that she knew he loved her because he still wore the rose she had thrown to him, and since he loved her he was now in her power, and must do exactly as she commanded.

Don José, though greatly enthralled and a victim to her passionate glances, made a feeble denial of his love, but Carmen laughed derisively, declaring again that he was hers, and inviting him to meet her later at a certain inn on the borders of Seville, where they would dance and sing together as happy lovers.

The young brigadier was now completely bewitched by the enticing words of the beautiful coquette, who thus tempted him to forget his duty; and full of the intoxication of sudden love, he whispered passionately that he would help her to escape, and meet her at the border inn, if she would promise to love him in return.

Full of exultation at thus gaining her freedom and a new lover into the bargain, Carmen gave the promise, and then the two quickly arranged a plan of escape.

When the Captain of the Guard returned with the prison order, the young brigadier led the captive off at once; but ere they had gone far, Carmen gave Don José a sudden push, so that he fell to the ground, and in the confusion that followed, she managed to make her escape through the crowd.

It was easily seen by the captain and soldiers standing about that Don José had allowed himself to be thrown to the ground, and he was quickly captured and borne off to gaol. Here he was compelled to serve a term of imprisonment; but all through his lonely hours he thought constantly of the fascinating young beauty whom he now loved so passionately, and determined to keep his appointment with her directly he gained his freedom.

Meanwhile Carmen had made her way to the border inn, the landlord of which was one of a successful band of smugglers; and here, falling into gipsy ways once more, she gave her assistance to the illicit traffic, the dangers and risks of which strongly appealed to her daring spirit and love of adventure.

This border inn was the favourite resort of certain officers and soldiers in the town, who, knowing nothing of the smuggling tendencies of the landlord, went to dance and amuse themselves with the pretty gipsy girls who frequented the place. Amongst these officers was Zuniga, the Captain of the Guard, who was so fascinated by the tantalizing charms of Carmen that he made no attempt at her recapture, preferring to make love to her instead; but the careless coquette would have nothing to say to him, until he came one evening with the news that Don José had been set at liberty and allowed to return to his regimental duties. Then she condescended to smile on the captain, for she was delighted to hear of her self-sacrificing lover's freedom, knowing well that he would certainly seek her out at once; and the foolish Zuniga went away happy, imagining that he had made a conquest.

That same evening a grand torchlight procession in honour of the most popular Toreador in Seville, a gay, handsome youth named Escamillo, took place; and on passing the border inn, the Toreador and his friends stepped within. Being greatly struck with the enticing beauty of Carmen, the gay Escamillo made advances to her, seeking her good favour; but the pretty gipsy, though pleased with his handsome looks, would neither accept nor refuse his admiration, all her thoughts for the present being centred on Don José, who she knew would visit her that night.

When the Toreador, soldiers, and other customers had departed, the landlord brought in his smuggler friends to talk over a new enterprise, with which they desired the gipsy girls to help. To their astonishment, Carmen flatly refused to join them that night, declaring that she meant to wait within the inn for her lover; and in spite of her companions' expostulations and entreaties, she still clung to this resolution. Then the smugglers, knowing that threats were in vain with the fearless gipsy, suggested that she should persuade her lover also to join their expedition; and Carmen gladly agreed to this, bidding them wait for her in an adjoining room.

No sooner had the smugglers retired than she heard Don José's voice outside; and opening the door quietly, she was next moment clasped in her lover's arms. Then, whilst the young brigadier refreshed himself with the food and wine she placed before him, Carmen sang and danced in her most enchanting manner, and Don José, more in love than ever, applauded her with great delight.

But suddenly he heard the bugle call outside, sounding the recall; and knowing that this was the signal for all soldiers to return to the barracks, he rose to bid his sweetheart farewell for the night. Then Carmen was offended, saying he could not care for her or he would not be so anxious to leave her side; and in spite of Don José's explanation that his soldier's duty alone compelled him to go, she scornfully refused to listen to him, declaring that if he truly loved her he would be willing to remain, and to follow her wherever she might lead.

Employing her most practised arts of coquetry, she tempted him to give up all and fly with her and her smuggler friends to the mountains, to live the rover's life of excitement and danger, declaring that, otherwise, she would never see him again; and the poor young brigadier was nearly distracted, for, though enthralled by love, yet he could not bear to think of deserting his regiment.

Just then there came a knock at the door, and Zuniga, Captain of the Guard, entered, having come for another farewell greeting from Carmen before returning to the town; but on encountering Don José, he haughtily ordered the youth to instantly rejoin the departing soldiers, who were again sounding the bugle call. But Don José, angry at the interruption, passionately refused to go, and next moment their swords were clashing together.

Carmen triumphant at the victory she had gained, knowing that Don José at last was hers, called aloud for help, and when the smugglers rushed into the room, she made them seize and bind the unfortunate captain so that he should not interfere with their plans. Don José, now completely under the spell of Carmen's fascination, was next invited by the smugglers to join their enterprise, and upon his agreeing to do so, the whole party set off to their rocky retreat in the mountains.

Here, amidst a wild, picturesque country, the smugglers plied their illicit trade with success for some time; and Don José, though often filled with remorse for his lost position, and tortured by the thoughts of his lonely mother, who still believed in his honesty, found relief in the frequent danger he was exposed to, and delight in the constant society of Carmen. In spite of the fact that she had caused him to desert his regiment and become a smuggler, ruining his character for ever, he still passionately loved the beautiful gipsy girl; but Carmen's fickle affection grew cooler each day, and having lost the excitement of pursuit by conquest, she already wished for a new lover, and began to think tenderly of the handsome Toreador who had besought her favour at the inn. But as Carmen's love grew colder, the more passionately did Don José long to keep it, and in spite of her taunts and slights, he declared that she should not cast him off, since he would never leave her side. However, he was at last compelled to do so; and the faithless gipsy rejoiced at the chance circumstance that took away from her the lover she had grown weary of.

One day Don José was set to guard the entrance to the smugglers' haunt, and seeing a stranger climbing up the mountain-side, he raised his gun and fired. The stranger, however, leaped aside and avoided the shot, and next moment he sprang to the ledge beside his assailant, and announced himself as Escamillo, the Toreador.

This well-known name dispersed Don José's hostility at once, and greeting the newcomer with respect, he desired to know his business in the gipsy camp. Escamillo replied that he had come to see the beautiful young gipsy girl, Carmen, with whom he had fallen desperately in love, and whose favour he now hoped to gain, since he expected she had by this time discarded her last lover, a deserter from the army.

On hearing this, Don José was filled with anger and jealousy, and drawing his dagger, challenged the Toreador to fight; and Escamillo, seeing that he had unwittingly fallen upon a rival, drew his own dagger in defence. But before either could aim a stroke, Carmen, who had heard the shot fired, appeared on the scene with the smugglers, who quickly separated the pair.

Escamillo rushed instantly to the side of Carmen, greeting her with rapture, and rejoicing to find that his advances were now received with answering pleasure; and then, as the smugglers refused to allow him to remain in their midst, he bade them farewell, but invited them all ere he departed to attend the great bull-fight to be held that week in Seville, at which he expected to achieve another triumph.

When he had gone, Don José, who had seen the passionate glances Carmen had bestowed upon her new admirer, began to upbraid her, and to warn her not to torture him too much, lest he did her harm. But the reckless Carmen cared naught for his threats, even though that very day, when reading her fortune by cards, they had foretold her an early death; for the beautiful gipsy was a true fatalist, and, regardless of the future, was willing to accept evil, if evil was in store for her.

Before Don José could expostulate further with Carmen, some of the smugglers came up to him with a struggling girl whom they had just found making her way into their camp; and to his utter astonishment and dismay the young brigadier beheld his foster-sister, Micaela.

The poor peasant girl had journeyed to Seville a second time, bearing another sad message to the man she loved; and on being told of Don José's desertion and of the evil ways into which he had fallen, she had still determined to find him, that she might deliver her message, and, if possible, draw him away from the woman who had enticed him to such wrong-doing.

Having learnt that he was in the gipsy smugglers' camp, she had fearlessly made her way there; and now, on coming face to face with the object of her search, she implored him to return with her to his old home, where his lonely mother was still weeping and waiting for him. Carmen, hoping thus to be rid of her inconvenient lover, also added to this entreaty, saying that he would do well to go away, since a smuggler's life would never suit him; but Don José, stung by her scornful taunt, declared that he would never leave her side, since she only desired his absence that she might pursue her new Toreador lover.

Then Micaela, with tears in her eyes, told the wretched youth that his mother was dying, and that unless he returned with her at once he would be too late to receive her forgiveness and last blessing; and, on hearing this, Don José was distracted with grief, and his filial love overcoming all other feelings for the moment, he bade a hasty farewell to Carmen, declaring that he would be with her again in a few days.

He then went off with Micaela; and the fickle Carmen, now thinking only of Escamillo, whom she already loved, returned next day to Seville with her gipsy friends, who had by this time finished their enterprise and were eager to attend the bull-fight to which they had been invited. The gay Toreador soon found himself an accepted lover; and Carmen, now loving at last with the whole of her passionate nature, was radiantly happy with Escamillo.

On the day of the bull-fight she accompanied him to the arena; and when he had departed for the fight, she was just about to enter the enclosure in order to watch his triumph, when she saw Don José approaching. Her gipsy companions begged her to turn aside, fearing from his dark, gloomy looks that he meant to do her harm; but Carmen was brave, and, reckless of danger, she went forward to meet her discarded lover with a cool and dauntless air.

Don José, chastened by grief and suffering, gently took the beautiful girl's hand in his and besought her to return with him to his country home, that they might there live a new and better life together; adding that he loved her so dearly that he longed to save her from her evil ways.

But Carmen angrily freed herself from his grasp, saying that all was now at an end between them, since she could never love him again; and flinging at his feet the ring he had given her, she declared passionately that she loved Escamillo the Toreador with her whole heart, and would love him only until her last breath. Stung to madness by her repudiation of him, Don José's pent-up rage and jealousy now broke forth in all its fury; and, in a sudden frenzy of passion, he drew his stiletto and stabbed her to the heart.

As the beautiful Carmen sank lifeless to the ground, loud shouts of applause arose from the arena announcing the popular Toreador's victory, and next moment, accompanied by a cheering crowd of admirers, Escamillo came forth from the enclosure glowing with triumph, and eager for the praises and greetings of the woman he loved.

But those praises and greetings were never spoken, for the woman he loved lay dead at his feet.

LUCREZIA BORGIA

One summer day, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, a splendid _fête_ was being held in the gardens of the Barberigo Palace in Venice; and amongst the gay company of guests thronging the fairy-like grounds were many bearers of the proudest and most ancient names in Italy.

One of the chief guests was the brilliant young Duke Orsini, around whom there quickly gathered a group of lively friends, all of whom, with one exception, could boast of noble birth. Nor, strange to say, was this one guest of unknown ancestry despised by his companions; but, on the other hand, he was fêted and admired above all others present. For young Gennaro, who knew nothing of his parentage and was not ashamed to reveal the fact that his early years had been spent under the guardianship of an old fisherman, had, on entering the Venetian army, quickly made a name for himself by his remarkable prowess in the recent warfare; and his heroic deeds, coupled with his handsome looks and charming disposition, had won for him great popularity and many friends, amongst whom even the aristocratic Orsini was proud to be numbered.

The principal subject of conversation amongst the guests was, as usual, the most recent atrocity committed by some member of the mighty Borgia family, who at that time held the chief power in Italy, and were universally feared and detested for their unscrupulous conduct and deeds of cold-blooded cruelty; and as the Orsini were amongst their most hated enemies, the young Duke did not hesitate to represent them in the worst possible light to his companions.

To-day, he dwelt on the many heartlessly cruel achievements of the Lady Lucrezia Borgia, who, although one of the most lovely and fascinating women of her time, had inherited her family's pride and love of power, and, like her brother Cæsar, did not scruple to use violent means to satisfy her passions or ambitions. A thrust in the dark or a poisoned draught rewarded those who presumed to interfere with the schemes of the powerful Borgias; and their victims were of all ranks, from the lowest to the highest.

The young Gennaro, fresh from deeds of honour and chivalry, soon sickened at the recital of deeds of treachery; and being overcome by the excessive heat, he presently stretched himself on the ground in a shady spot near the water, and fell asleep. When he had thus left the group, Orsini, proud of his young friend, began to relate to his companions the stirring story of Gennaro's heroic conduct in the recent battle of Rimini; and shortly afterwards, they wandered away to another part of the grounds.

Presently, a gondola glided silently past the festive grounds; and a lady who sat within, noticing the sleeping form of Gennaro on the bank near the water's edge, and being greatly struck with his exceeding beauty, landed and stepped lightly to his side.

This lady was none other than the notorious Lucrezia Borgia herself, who, though come on a secret mission to Venice, did not hesitate to enter boldly into the midst of her enemies, merely for the sake of gratifying an impulse of the moment.

As she silently bent over the handsome sleeping youth, a feeling of great tenderness for him suddenly welled up within Lucrezia's heart, for she now recognised him as her own son, the child born of a secret amour of her first early youth; and trembling with the excitement of her newly-awakened maternal love, and her delight in the beauty of her offspring, she raised his hand and kissed it softly.

At her salute, the young man awakened, greatly confused at finding himself thus alone with such a dazzling stranger; for Lucrezia was still young and beautiful, and her wonderful fascination was quickly felt by Gennaro, who made friends with her at once, and was soon engaged in pleasant conversation with her. He told her his story with all the trusting confidence of early youth; describing to her how he had been left as an infant with the old fisherman who had brought him up, and how, after joining the Venetian army, he had seemed to lead a charmed existence, modestly refraining from dwelling upon his more recent exploits.

So delighted was the youth with the sympathy and kindness of the lady, that he begged her to reveal her name to him; but this Lucrezia refused to do, for she did not wish to destroy his evident respect for her by disclosing her identity, nor did she dare to acknowledge her true relationship to him, having kept his birth a secret all these years.

But as she turned to leave him, Orsini and his companions returned to seek their friend; and instantly recognising the lady, whose face was well known to all of them, they denounced her to Gennaro as the detested Lucrezia Borgia, whose hateful deeds they had so recently described to him.

But, though Gennaro was shocked at this announcement, he had already so completely fallen under the fascination of Lucrezia that he took every opportunity of seeing her that arose; and his friendship with her was strengthened by frequent meetings.

Their evident affection for each other was ere long noticed by Lucrezia's husband, the Duke Alphonso of Ferrara, in whose breast jealousy was quickly roused to such a pitch that he vowed vengeance upon the pair, and eagerly watched for an opportunity of satisfying his wrath.

The young Duke Orsini and his companions were also greatly disturbed by their young friend's infatuation for one of the hated Borgia family; and they did all in their power, by means of scoldings and taunts, to draw him away from Lucrezia's wiles, knowing only too well that such an intimacy would certainly end disastrously for the young man.

But Gennaro, who felt himself attracted by some mighty force towards the beautiful woman who showed such tender affection for him, although unable to define the feeling he had for her, continued his new intimacy in spite of the warnings of his friends; yet at times their taunts stung him bitterly, for he knew well the evil character which Lucrezia had earned for herself, and he would then despise himself for allowing her to exercise such a strange fascination over him.

On one such occasion as this, having met with his friends in the public square in front of the Borgia Palace at Ferrara, and being taunted by them more bitterly than usual, he gave vent to a passionate outburst of anger against Lucrezia; and, heedless of consequences, he dashed up to the palace door, and recklessly struck off the first letter of her name with the short dagger he wore.

This rash deed was observed by the Duke of Ferrara himself, who at once ordered his attendants to make the young man a prisoner and hold him in the palace. He then caused the defacing of the family name to be made known to Lucrezia, who, unaware that the deed had been committed by Gennaro, and only feeling rage at the insult, demanded that the culprit should be seized and put to death; and the Duke, gloating over the chance that had at last put his supposed rival in his power, declared that her wish should be immediately carried out, and ordered the prisoner to be brought into the room for sentence.

Then, when Lucrezia saw that it was her own beloved son whom she had thus so carelessly condemned to death, she was filled with dismay and horror, and at once began to plead with her husband for his life.

But the Duke remained obdurate, and furiously denounced Gennaro as her lover, who should now die in her presence; and, in spite of the frantic woman's entreaties and passionate tirades, the most he would grant was that she should choose the mode of his death.

Lucrezia was for the moment filled with despair, not daring to vindicate herself by revealing her true relationship to Gennaro; but, suddenly, her quick wit devising a way out of the difficulty, she declared that she was willing for the prisoner to die by drinking a draught of the famous poisoned wine of the Borgias.

The Duke, well pleased that his own strong will should have, as he supposed, conquered the proud spirit of his wife, triumphantly produced a cup of poisoned wine, which he handed to the unfortunate Gennaro, compelling him to drain it to the last drop; and then, with a mocking laugh, he left the pair to take a last farewell of each other. But he had forgotten for the moment that the Borgias had the power to cure as well as to kill with the subtle poisons they used; and when he had departed, Lucrezia hastily produced an antidote to the fatal draught which Gennaro had just taken, so that the young man, by swallowing this, was thus saved from an untimely end.

Having seen that the antidote was taking good effect, Lucrezia hurried the still half-dazed Gennaro out of the palace through an unfrequented passage; and bidding him betake himself to Venice, she hoped he was safe from further harm.

Being no longer occupied with the engrossing pleasure of her newly-found son's society, and freed from the softening influence which he had exercised over her, Lucrezia became once more involved in her political schemes and personal intrigues; and having vowed vengeance upon the young Duke Orsini and his four companions for their denunciation of her to Gennaro, she proceeded to take her revenge upon them at a splendid banquet to be held at the palace of the Princess Negroni, a lady whose entertainments were always attended by the victims she had marked out.

When the night of the banquet arrived, the cunning Borgia managed to poison a flagon of rich wine, which she caused to be served out to the five nobles whose deaths she desired; and then she concealed herself, to await the consummation of her plan.

As the revels waxed more boisterous, Orsini, exhilarated by the rare wine he had been served with, entertained the company by singing a gay drinking song; and amidst the applause which followed his performance, Lucrezia made her appearance, and revealing herself to Orsini and his companions, announced with cruel triumph that they had all partaken of poisoned wine and that in a few minutes they would be dead. At her command, the attendants showed the five victims the coffins in which they would shortly lie; but at this moment, when her vengeance was just consummated, she was suddenly prostrated with horror. For Gennaro, who, neglectful of her bidding, had remained in Ferrara, now suddenly appeared before her; and, announcing that he also, as a guest at the banquet, had partaken of the poisoned wine, sternly desired her to provide a sixth coffin for his remains when he should presently breathe his last.

The revellers, overcome by this tragic interruption to their mirth, left the banqueting hall one by one, with pale faces and trembling steps; and the mother and son were left alone.

Lucrezia was filled with the utmost horror on thus discovering that she had once again caused her beloved son to be poisoned; and quickly producing the antidote, with tears and entreaties she begged him to swallow it instantly, her anxiety at his extreme danger being so great that, unable to control her feelings, she now revealed herself to him as his mother.

But Gennaro refused to accept the antidote; for he was stunned by the announcement that this terrible woman, whose cold-blooded murder of his friends repelled him with horror, was his mother. It was in vain that Lucrezia, seeing that the poison was already taking deadly effect upon her gasping son, entreated him passionately to take the antidote which she offered to him, and which alone could save his life; for Gennaro was determined not to live since his friends were doomed to die, and, regardless of his mother's despair, he thrust the antidote aside, and a few moments later fell back in her arms, dead.

At this moment, the Duke Alphonso entered the room; and Lucrezia, in a paroxysm of grief and wild despair, revealed to him the true relationship in which she had stood to Gennaro.

The Duke had scarcely time to grasp the meaning of her distracted words, when the wretched Lucrezia herself fell gasping to the floor; for the shock of having unwittingly murdered her own son was greater than she had strength to bear, and with a last despairing cry of woe and remorse, she fell dead beside the still form of her beloved Gennaro.

LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR

During the turbulent times of the seventeenth-century revolution, many of the noble families of Scotland were plunged into poverty and ruin; and under the lax and uncertain rule of changing parties, many occasions arose for unjust oppression by the ambitious holders of powerful offices, and for the pursuit of private feuds and motives of revenge.

Thus it came about that the Barons of Ravenswood, an ancient family who had dwelt for many centuries in the south-east of Scotland amidst the wild hills of Lammermoor, became gradually poor, and lost the power they had enjoyed so long; and the young Lord Edgar, the surviving Master of Ravenswood, found himself forced to struggle against overwhelming difficulties.

The young Edgar, enthusiastic and full of spirit, did not grudge the sharing of his country's troubles; but when most of his lands and possessions fell into the hands of the Ashtons, the long hated foes of his race, and a less noble family than his own, his heart was indeed filled with bitterness.

By ingratiating themselves with the most powerful party then in office, the Ashtons had gained considerable influence in the southern provinces; and they did not fail to use their power by taunting and annoying the family of Ravenswood, whose hatred they returned with equal zest.

But whilst Edgar of Ravenswood still managed to dwell securely in his crumbling old castle, though shorn of his wealth, his foes, in their ambitious flights and grasping pride, eventually overreached themselves; and at last, Sir Henry Ashton, on coming into the estates, found himself faced with ruin. He had become entangled in a Government conspiracy; and suspicion having quickly fallen upon him, he knew himself to be in the utmost danger.

In this desperate situation, one person alone could save him from the traitor's awful doom--his fair young sister, Lucy. For Lucy Ashton's exquisite beauty and gentle nature had gained her the admiration of Sir Arthur Bucklaw, a gay young nobleman, who held high offices, and whose great influence was sufficient to remove the danger which threatened the involved Henry.

This influence Sir Arthur was willing to exert if Lucy's hand were bestowed on him in marriage; and as Henry Ashton spoke of this matter one day with his henchman, Norman, and his chaplain, Bide-the-Bent, he anxiously sought to allay his fears thus.

Bide-the-Bent, who had been Lucy's tutor, and loved her dearly, knowing that she had no affection for Sir Arthur, begged his master not to harass the maiden, since she was still too young to think of such matters; but Norman, the henchman, laughed derisively on hearing this, and declared that, so far from being too young to think of love, Lucy already had a devoted lover, to whom she granted secret interviews in the grounds.

Henry, angry at hearing such news, demanded further information; and Norman declared that Lucy, when walking one day in the park, having been rescued from the furious attack of a wild bull by a handsome young stranger, had straightway fallen in love with him, and was now in the habit of meeting him frequently.

"And what is the name of this bold stranger who thus dares to woo my sister in secret?" cried Henry, pale with wrath; and Norman answered: "Edgar of Ravenswood!"

On hearing that Lucy's lover was none other than his own hated foe, Ravenswood, Henry Ashton became furious, and passionately vowed vengeance on the pair; and, full of angry, uneasy thoughts, he determined to hasten the alliance of his sister with Sir Arthur Bucklaw, after which he hoped to soon find means for vanquishing the disappointed lover.

Meanwhile, knowing her brother to be engaged with his followers, Lucy, attended by her maid, Alice, had crept down to the secret trysting-place in the park, to await the coming of her lover, whom she expected that day; for the henchman, Norman, had spoken the truth, and a deep love had indeed sprung up between Edgar of Ravenswood and the fair daughter of his enemies. As the young girl and her attendant drew near to an ancient fountain, around which a legend had grown up to the effect that a dead-and-gone Ravenswood had there slain a maiden who loved him, and that her spirit still haunted the spot, Lucy declared that she had herself recently beheld this wraith, which had made strange signs, as though warning her against some unseen danger; and Alice begged her young mistress to no longer continue her secret love passages, since such a solemn warning evidently meant that trouble was in store for her.

But Lucy heeded her not; and seeing Edgar approach, she ran to greet him with great joy. Soon, however, when the first happy moments were passed, she noticed that her lover was anxious and somewhat preoccupied; and on asking the cause, she was quickly filled with sorrow when Edgar announced that in a few hours he would be compelled to leave the country on a secret mission to France, a mission which had been entrusted to his care by the political party to which he belonged.

The young man also declared that he would now boldly seek an interview with Sir Henry Ashton, in order to secure his consent to their union; but Lucy, fearing her brother's anger, and knowing well that he would never consent to bestow her upon one for whom he bore such intense hatred, begged him to keep their love a precious secret until his return, lest evil should fall upon her during his absence.

Edgar's reply was a passionate tirade against the man who had so ruthlessly persecuted his race and brought ruin upon him; but quickly melted by the tears and entreaties of the gentle Lucy, he granted her request, and comforted her with great tenderness.

The lovers now exchanged rings, as their solemn pledge of faithfulness to each other; and with many loving embraces, they at length bade each other farewell, and parted with heavy hearts.

A sad and harassing time was now in store for Lucy; for Sir Henry Ashton, beset on all sides with dangers and difficulties, was determined to save himself from utter disaster by wedding his lovely sister to Sir Arthur Bucklaw, who alone had the necessary influence to extricate him from the compromising political sea of trouble in which he had become immersed.

It was in vain that Lucy refused to agree to the marriage, even summoning courage to declare her plighted troth to Edgar of Ravenswood; her brother absolutely declined to consider her wishes in the matter, and ruthlessly resolved to sacrifice her happiness to his own selfish ends. He therefore made all the arrangements for her marriage with Sir Arthur Bucklaw to be carried out; and he proceeded to invite all their relations and friends to attend the ceremony of signing the marriage contract and the wedding of the pair.

Lucy, finding herself helpless in the matter, could only hope that her beloved Edgar would return in time to claim her as his plighted bride, and thus free her from her terrible position; but to her sorrow, she received no replies to the letters she sent to her lover, and was soon plunged in despair. The fact of the matter was that Sir Henry's henchman, Norman, intercepted all the letters sent by the absent Edgar, and took them to his master; and, between them, they also concocted a forged letter, in which the Master of Ravenswood was made to announce that his affection for Lucy had waned, and that he had taken another lady to be his wife.

This letter Henry Ashton kept as his last argument; and on the day on which the bridal guests were expected, he had a final interview with his sister, bidding her to be of more cheerful demeanour, since she must sign her marriage contract with Sir Arthur Bucklaw that day.

Again the unhappy girl begged for mercy, declaring that she could not marry Bucklaw since she had plighted herself to Edgar of Ravenswood, and refusing to heed her brother when he insisted that a vow made without the consent of her guardians was not binding upon her; and then, still finding her obdurate, Sir Henry produced the forged letter and bade her read it.

The hapless Lucy, believing the writing to be that of her lover, whom she was thus compelled to acknowledge as faithless, was now plunged into the deepest grief; and her brother, taking advantage of her dazed and helpless condition, besought her eagerly to turn her thoughts from such an unworthy object, and to sign the contract of the brilliant marriage which had been arranged for her, declaring that he himself would certainly forfeit his life unless she would consent to wed Sir Arthur Bucklaw, who alone had the power to save him, and was willing to do so on this one condition.

Lucy, thus basely deceived, felt that life had no further joy for her; and feeling now that it was her duty to save her brother from ruin, she fell into a state of wretched apathy, and finally consented to the marriage, caring naught for what might befall her.

The wedding guests now arrived; and Lucy, quite dull, and heedless of Sir Arthur Bucklaw's eager greeting, at the whispered stern bidding of her brother, signed the marriage contract with a trembling hand.

No sooner had she done the deed, than a cloaked stranger dashed into the room; and, to the surprise and consternation of all, the intruder proved to be none other than Edgar of Ravenswood himself, who, having just returned from France, had come to claim his plighted bride.

For answer, Henry Ashton triumphantly showed him the signed marriage contract; and Edgar, thus seeing that Lucy had broken her troth, fell into a passion of rage and grief, and, scorning all explanations from the distracted girl, snatched her ring from his finger and returned it to her, passionately demanding his own back again.

Half-dazed with the shock of his sudden appearance, the unhappy Lucy, as in a dream, slowly and almost unwittingly drew the ring from her finger; and Edgar, after passionately trampling the love pledge beneath his foot, rushed from the room, uttering wild curses on the family of Ashton.

Hurrying to his crumbling and dismantled castle, the unhappy Master of Ravenswood remained plunged in the deepest grief; and here he was some hours later visited by the triumphant Henry Ashton, who came to announce that his sister's marriage with Sir Arthur Bucklaw had duly taken place. Passionate words passed between the two men, who had been implacable foes from childhood; and after proudly agreeing to settle their differences by a duel next morning, Henry Ashton returned to his mansion to join in the wedding festivities.

But woe was quickly to succeed to this forced merriment; for, shortly after the bride and bridegroom had been escorted to their chamber, wild shrieks were heard, and the chaplain, Bide-the-Bent, rushed into the presence of the alarmed guests with a fearful story on his lips. Lucy Ashton, tortured and racked with the anxiety and sorrow of the last few weeks, and utterly stunned and prostrated by the final shock of Edgar's return and passionate reproaches, had lost her reason; and in a paroxysm of frenzy, she had slain her newly-made husband.

Overwhelmed with horror, Henry Ashton and his guests hurried to the scene of this awful tragedy; but though they endeavoured to calm and restore the distraught girl, their efforts were in vain, and Lucy, worn out in body as well as in mind, died a few hours later.

Bide-the-Bent and some other retainers of the family, quickly brought the sad news to Edgar of Ravenswood, who, unable to rest, was passing the night in wretchedness amidst the tombs of his ancestors in a wild and craggy spot; and when the unhappy lover thus heard of his beloved one's tragic death, and understood that he had wronged her, since she had been cruelly deceived, his woe was so great that, determined not to live without her, he stabbed himself to the heart, and fell dead at the feet of the horrified attendants.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT
(_La Figlia del Reggimento_)

During the occupation of the Swiss Tyrol by the French, the soldiers of the Eleventh Regiment of the Grand Army of Napoleon had many special opportunities for distinguishing themselves; and, having one day, after a short period of rest, once again received orders to march against the enemy, the news was hailed with joy, and the camp was soon full of the bustle of departure.

But this particular day was destined to bring forth much trouble to the Eleventh Regiment, and to mark an event which caused deep disturbance in their happy camp life; and all this woe arose from their chance meeting with a party of travellers early in the morning.

It happened that a rich lady, the Marchioness of Berkenfeld, was driving through the Tyrol on a return journey to her château; and on passing the camp of the Eleventh Regiment, she was filled with dismay when her carriage was suddenly stopped by the soldiers. Her fears, however, were soon set at rest by the Sergeant in charge, an elderly man named Sulpizio, who, on learning her name and destination, politely declared that no harm was intended her; and on being invited to rest awhile in the camp, she very gladly alighted from her carriage, and retired to the tent indicated.

As the Marchioness retired, the soldiers raised a loud shout of welcome at the appearance of a pretty young girl, dressed in the garments of a vivandière, whom they all greeted eagerly as their beloved Marie, the Daughter of the Regiment; and as the maiden tripped merrily amidst the men, Sulpizio sighed deeply, for the unexpected coming of the Marchioness of Berkenfeld now reminded him of a certain duty in connection with this fair child.