without first satisfying himself of his guilt. He accordingly returned his sword, which he had unsheathed in the first moment of his fury, to its scabbard, and turned upon his heel.

As soon as Olivier was sufficiently recovered from the effects of the tortures which had been inflicted upon him to be enabled to undergo them again, he was brought before the inquisitors for re-examination. On being asked if his master would appear on his behalf, he replied, that the young count had left Venice on the night of the murder, and would be absent on a visit some days; and added, that but for this circumstance, he should not have ventured from home at so late an hour. He was then desired to state his motive for being absent from his master's house at such a time of night. After some hesitation, which his judges seemed to consider as a sign of his guilt, he with great diffidence assured the council, that an innocent motive had led him from home on the occasion in question. He had a mistress, the daughter of a tradesman in the Strada del Maia, and having some knowledge of the guitar, was returning from serenading his beloved Rosina, when the discourse of some men, whom he apprehended to be robbers, led him to secrete himself under the piazzas where he was first discovered.

As, however, no guitar was found upon him, his story was discredited; but he declared in explanation of the circumstance which appeared to invalidate his statement, that it was his custom to repair every evening to his mistress in the same manner; that upon a preconcerted signal given by him she opened the window, and with a string let down the instrument, which she drew up ere he retired; but that on the evening alluded to, he had, in consequence of his master's absence, ventured to prolong his visit to a much later hour than usual.' To this attempt at excuse little credit was attached; and, after having been put once more to the torture, he was remanded to prison.

Dominica Foscari had, as Olivier had informed the tribunal, set out on the evening of the murder from the ducal palace for the country villa of his friend, Count Emanuel, to solicit his consent to his nuptials with the beautiful Francesca. He had passed two days of uninterrupted happiness in the society of Emanuel and Francesca, and had not only obtained the object of his hopes, but had been told by his friend that it was the first wish of his heart to see his sister united to him; when, on the close of the third day, it was proposed that the two lovers should avail themselves of the beauty of the weather to make a short excursion in the count's gondola. The evening was one of those which so often succeed a stormy day. The thunder had ceased to roar, and the livid flashes of lightning no longer burst upon the eye. The moon was rising from behind a group of fantastically-shaped masses of cloud with unusual splendour, and the gentle breeze that still played upon the surface of the water, brought coolness and fragrance upon its wing. They had scarcely been half an hour on the canal, and were listening to the evening chaunt of the gondolieri, when they perceived, by the light of the moon, some men embarking in a small boat which belonged also to the count; and supposing that he was bringing some friends to join them, they desired their gondolieri to rest upon their oars. The boat approached them with incredible swiftness; but what was their surprise, when, instead of the count, two fierce-looking menjumped on board, and seizing on Dominica, whilst a third held the boat, inquired of him if he was Signor Foscari, son of the Doge. He immediately answered

that he was, and desired them to unhand him. They replied sullenly, that he must consider himself their prisoner, for that they arrested him by order of the inquisition, for the murder of Count Donato.

Surprise, horror, and compassion for Francesca, agitated him by turns. But resistance would have availed him nothing; he therefore suffered himself to be conveyed into the boat, whilst the gondolieri rowed slowly to shore with his almost lifeless mistress.

Emanuel, who had been enjoying the serenity of the evening with a friend, was at that moment awaiting, on the steps of his villa, the return of Foscari and his sister. As the gondola approached the shore, they were surprised at not seeing him; but when they beheld the apparently lifeless form of Francesca reclining on one of the benches, they immediately concluded that Dominica was drowned. Santa Virgine,' exclaimed one of the gondolieri (who believed her to have been dead), as she opened her eyes and pronounced the name of her lover; whilst the other sighed piteously as he ejaculated Donna Infelice; and then following the count into the house, they related all they knew of the affair.

Emanuel never, for a moment, questioned the innocence of his friend; but he was aware of the unrelenting character of his judges, as well as of the envenomed malignity of Angelo Donato. The distress of Francesca,―the confusion which would be occasioned in the Foscari family,—and above all, the anguish which his beloved Julia must feel on the occasion, preyed upon his imagination, and presented to him nothing but the most terrific ideas. One moment he beheld his dearest friend inhumanly deprived of life, for an offence he would have shuddered at the bare idea of committing; and the next, he fancied he saw his sister deprived of reason, her face pale, and her hair dishevelled, calling for vengeance on the murderers of her lover; but when the image of Julia presented itself to his mind, worn down by grief for the loss of an amiable and innocent brother, he was almost overwhelmed with the tumult of emotions which agitated him.

Foscari preserved a sullen silence, disdaining to ask any questions of the men by whom he had been arrested. He thought only of his Francesca, and the big tears coursed each other down his manly cheeks, when he reflected on the situation of his mistress; but, even in these moments, his consciousness of his own innocence reassured him that he should soon behold her again.

Olivier was once more put to the question, but persisted in his protestations of his innocence. At length he was respited, and a fresh, and still more diabolical expedient, was resorted to. An anonymous letter had, it appeared, been put into that detestable engine of calumny, The Lion's Mouth,' intimating a thorough conviction of Foscari's being the sole instigator of the murder of Count Donato. The cause assigned was, that Angelo Donato had made overtures to Signora Francesca de Buonarotti, and that the young Foscari had, by mistake, inflicted on the father the blow intended for the son. Every circumstance that could possibly give a colour to such a supposition was exaggerated, especially Foscari's sudden absence on the night of the murder. The better to conceal the objects of the writer, the letter concluded with a long eulogy on the Doge, setting forth how unworthy was such a son of so great and amiable a father. This diabolical trick produced the desired effect. Foscari, when brought before the tribunal, expressed becoming indignation at the charge imputed to him, and replied to all the interrogatories of the inquisitors, in a firm and undaunted manner.

But the bitterness of his enemies was not to be appeased by reason and truth. They persisted in his having been, if not the immediate perpetrator, at least, the instigator of the murder; but no positive evidence appearing against him, he was condemned to the rack, in the expectation that torture would wring from him a confession, which his persecutors had been unable to obtain by gentler means. He requested that he might first be allowed an interview with the Doge his father, but even this request was denied him; and in answer to his complaints of the injustice of his judges, he was directed to prepare himself immediately for the torture. In the course of a few minutes afterwards, he was placed upon the wheel. A groan from the bystanders followed the first screw of the infernal machine; the victim's lips moved, but no sound accompanied that movement. Would he confess? He faintly articulated, 'I am innocent.' His pulse stopped, and his heart ceased to beat. Unmindful of the state to which they had reduced him, they were proceeding to still further barbarities, when the inquisitors directed their familiars to cease, and unbind him. It was not until he was placed upon a litter, with his friend Emanuel by his side, that Foscari began to breathe again. As he drew near to his prison he awoke once more to the consciousness of his situation; and the recollection of the condition in which he had left his beloved Francesca, was even more dreadful than all the tortures he had undergone. Emanuel concealed as much as possible the effect produced upon his sister by Foscari's cruel arrest, assuring him that she had not lost the hope of her lover's being restored to her by an honourable and unqualified acquittal.

Some days passed, in which he saw no one save his faithful attendant, and the Count Buonarotti, who had employed all the influence he could command in favour of his unfortunate friend. But even the Doge, strange as it may appear, refused to intercede for his son. He disdained the condescension, well aware that his interference was not likely to alter the decrees of such a court as that of Venice. The marchioness was inconsolable, and would herself have besought mercy for her child, but that she was forbidden so to do by her husband, who protested that none of his family should subject themselves to an humiliation which he knew could be productive of no advantage to the individual who might be the object of it. Julia, however, received considerable support from the assurances of her lover, who promised that all his interest should be exerted for the unfortunate Dominica. Affairs were in this train, when the Council of Ten, who had frequently assembled for the purpose of agreeing on what sentence they should pass upon the supposed delinquent, after many deliberations, resolved to banish him for a stated period in the island of Candia; and if he still persisted in his innocence to inflict the torture upon him a second time, and then imprison him until he should confess his crime. This sentence met with the hearty concurrence of his enemies, more especially of the Count Donato. Natale Donato, however, satisfied in his heart that Foscari could neither have been the perpetrator nor instigator of the crime imputed to him, felt the utmost indignation at this cruel treatment; but, when he attempted to express his sentiments on the subject, he was assailed with reproaches, and the most opprobrious language, by his inhuman brother. He was determined, nevertheless, to satisfy Foscari that he was in no wise accessary to the barbarities which had been practised upon him; and with this view, on the morning previous to the arrival of the decree from the inquisitorial court, bribed the guards to introduce him to the prisoner, whom he found

listening to a letter which Count Buonarotti was reading to him from Francesca, and which contained the most earnest protestations of affection for her unfortunate lover.

The interruption was by no means a welcome one, for Foscari supposed that he beheld one of his most implacable enemies. Emanuel rose, and begged to know the cause of so strange a visit. An explanation soon ensued, and Natale having disavowed any participation in the cause of Foscari's unmerited sufferings, and acknowledged his belief that Dominica was entirely guiltless of the crime of which he was accused, parted from him on the most friendly terms, with a promise that he would visit him every day during his confinement.

The following morning the decree arrived, and was presented to him by one of the familiars of the tribunal. Foscari summoned composure to make himself master of its purport; but when he came to that part of it which doomed him to imprisonment in Candia, he was completely overwhelmed by the violence of his emotions, and sitting down, leaned his face on his hands in an agony of grief and indignation. Count Buonarotti at this moment entered his cell, and employed every means in his power to alleviate his sufferings. The sentence named the ensuing day for his departure. This circumstance had escaped the observation of Foscari, and was no sooner pointed out to him, than he gave himself up to the most heart-rending despair; imploring his friend, in the most pathetic manner, to intercede with his merciless judges, in order to induce them to allow him a parting interview with his parents and Francesca. Emanuel hastened to the ducal palace, where he found the Doge with his family, already apprised of the savage mandate, and sinking under the pressure of their grief. It was in vain to entreat his intercession; and having admonished them to assume a degree of fortitude, which his wretched friend had entirely abandoned, he repaired to the assembled council, and with an appearance of submission, which nothing but the situation in which he stood would have induced him to assume, delivered the request of Dominica for a few days delay, in order to enable him to take leave of his family and friends. But these merciless persecutors were inexorable; and all that could be extracted from their savage natures, was, that the young count should be allowed, during his imprisonment at Candia, to write and receive letters from his friends. Emanuel accordingly retired to the ducal palace, and related the ill success of his embassy. The effect produced upon this devoted family may be more readily conceived than described.

Natale Donato had, after his visit to Foscari, endeavoured to exculpate himself with the Doge. The sight of Julia,-her unaffected distress,-but, above all, the generosity with which she acquitted him of taking part against her unhappy brother, -all conspired to awaken those sentiments which her beauty first created in his bosom, and it was now that he resolved, at the hazard of of his life, and what was dearer still, his honour, to do all he could to serve the unfortunate family. By mere accident, he was with the Doge when Buonarotti returned, and was witness to the agonizing emotions of Julia, when she found she could not obtain an interview with her beloved Dominica. An idea presented itself to his imagination, which seemed to promise her the melancholy satisfaction of an interview,-and when the marquis solicited the count to revisit his son, and bear him their blessing with all the consolation he could administer, Natale accompanied him, and informed him of the plan which had suggested itself.

The disguise which procured Natale's admission to Foscari, was that of a page to Count Buonarotti; and as he had not discovered himself to the principal attendant, he thought Julia might easily pass unnoticed in the same dress. This proposal met, with the warm concurrence of Emanuel, who returned the most unfeigned acknowledgments for the interest he took in the sufferings of his friend. They separated, and the count imparted to Foscari the refusal of the inquisitors, as well as the generous offer of Natale Donato.

The evening arrived, and Natale conducted the trembling Julia to the prison of her brother; as he quitted her, her fears increased with violence, for she dreaded a discovery which must, at this juncture, have proved fatal. The guards were, however, deceived, and she gained Foscari's apartment without the slightest notice having been taken of her.

She had not been long with her brother, when a plan occurred to her mind, which, though amazed at her own intrepidity, (having until this moment been timidity itself) she determined to put in execution. She communicated it instantly to the count and Foscari.-It was, that she and her brother should exchange habits, in order that he might thus escape to the country-seat of Count Emanuel, and there remain till the following night, by favour of which he might get to Naples, and take his opportunity from thence to escape the vigilance of his pursuers. She concluded by assuring them, she had no fears on her own account, as the council could not punish her for the imputed crime of her brother.-She paused.— Already was Foscari at the feet of his sister, while Emanuel fixed his eyes, glistening with tears, on his Julia, in silent admiration.

The scheme was too flattering not to be acceded to by Dominica. The idea of once more beholding his Francesca, would have induced him to run any risk. The feelings of Count Buonarotti on this occasion were of a most perplexing character-trembling for the safety of both, he knew not what to advise; the extreme delicacy of Julia, he was well aware, could ill support the severity which threatened her, on the inevitable discovery-and he was not assured that immediate death would not be the consequence if his friend were retaken.

Foscari was still at Julia's feet, pouring forth his effusions of gratitude, while Emanuel remained in silent perplexity, when she started up, and with the most animated countenance, reminded them there was no time to be lost. 'Do you then, my dear count,' rejoined she, immediately retire, that you may not be accused of assisting in this plot.' Then, without giving him time to reply, she led him to the door, and with a tender pressure of his hand, closed it upon him. Emanuel, without knowing what he did, walked slowly from the prison, occupied with the most piercing reflections, and anticipating every evil which could possibly befall those whom he loved and esteemed most on earth; not to mention the suspicions which must inevitably be directed towards himself. Having proceeded a considerable distance, he resolved to rest himself among the ruins of an old castle, and had remained in this situation nearly an hour, the gloominess of the night adding to the sadness of his mind,-when, on casting up his eyes with a fervent ejaculation, he perceived some one hastily passing that way; as quickly he descried the step of Foscari, and in an instant they were by each other's side. Dominica, who dared not delay, scarcely articulated Farewell, my friend, be kind to Julia,' and was proceeding, but the darkness of the night favouring their escape, the count