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 COLLECTION 
 
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 VOL. 2293. 
 THE RED CARDINAL BY FRANCES ELLIOT. 
 
 IN ONE TOLUIIE. 
 
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 By the same Author, 
 
 THE DIARY OF AN IDLE AVOMAN IN ITALY .... 2 vols. 
 
 OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE 2 vols. 
 
 THE ITALIAN'S 2 vols. 
 
 THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN SICILY . . . . i vol. 
 
 PICTURES OF OLD ROME I vol. 
 
 THE DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN SPAIN .... 2 vols. 
 
 THE STORY OF SOPHIA i vol. 
 
 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOJtAN IN CONSTANTINOPLE . . i vol. 
 
 OLD COURT LIFE IN SPAIN 2 vols. 
 
 ROMAN GOSSIP i vol.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 A ROMAN CE. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES ELLIOT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "diary OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN SPAIN," ETC. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 EERNHARD TAUCHNITS 
 
 1884. 
 
 The Right of Translaiioii is reserz'cd. 
 
 » » > i \ 
 
 i T Si:
 
 
 TO 
 
 \ F. MARION CRAWFORD, 
 
 FROM HIS OLD FRIEND, 
 
 FRANCES ELLIOT. 
 
 270814:
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 T. 
 
 Allow me to introduce myself to the reader. 
 
 My name is Lucius Anstruther, a Catholic gentle- 
 man, of middle age, and of an ancient lineage in the 
 north of England. 
 
 My tastes are aesthetic, my judgment sound, my 
 manners courteous, I am even given to understand, 
 somewhat imposing. As I was never handsome, age 
 has naturally not improved my appearance. I value 
 myself (if I may be allowed to express an opinion on 
 my own character) specially on the qualities of the 
 heart. 
 
 You will judge if I am right in the course of this 
 
 narrative — commenced when I was travelling in the 
 
 north of Italy, accompanied by my nephew, Frederick 
 
 Stanley, my only sister's son, seventeen years old, an 
 
 Etonian, who spends his holidays with me. 
 
 ****** 
 
 We crossed the Alps by the Mont Cenis road, and 
 arriving in Florence on the morning of the 20th August,
 
 5 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 187-, spent a few days in revisiting the galleries, spe- 
 cially the Pitti — not at all, I regret to say, appreciated 
 by Frederick. 
 
 Then we started for my destination, Siena. 
 
 Siena — spite of steam, electricity and the nine- 
 teenth century — still in the middle ages. Nothing 
 more modern than St. Catherine, its patron saint, and 
 Charles V. and the Spaniards. The frowning walls 
 and Gothic palaces, the sculptured piazzas, cavernous 
 streets and mediaeval churches, pictures and carvings, 
 domes, turrets and campanili — of a much earlier date. 
 
 True there is a railway to Siena from Florence — 
 continuing on to Rome — but the city itself altogether 
 ignores it. The mediaeval gates refuse to give it en- 
 trance; the lofty walls look down on it with scorn. 
 Under which circumstances it is fortunate that it ap- 
 proaches the city by a long tunnel, and is so folded 
 up and enveloped among the deep scoring of valleys 
 among the hills as to be, save for an occasional puff 
 of smoke, altogether invisible. 
 
 The length of time that we were kept waiting for 
 our luggage at the station, a subterranean vault that 
 chilled our very bones, caused Frederick to use lan- 
 guage that shocked me in a youth. I am a patient 
 man, because I am a polite one; therefore I was silent. 
 In Frederick's excuse I must say that in no continental 
 city, Madrid excepted, has my temper been so tried. 
 
 At length, a gaudily-painted omnibus (another con- 
 cession to modern times) received us and our portman- 
 teaus, and we drove slowly, through gloomy streets, to 
 the "Grand Hotel." 
 
 Here we are received by Mr. Batty, announced in 
 the bills as English, standing, his legs {i\v apart, on a
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. Q 
 
 door-mat, inscribed with the word "Welcome." The 
 mat, together with Mr. Batty's ostentatiously British 
 attire, close-cut hair, long whiskers, tight-fitting cut- 
 away coat, narrow trousers and laced boots, causing 
 in me grave doubts as to his nationality; an impression 
 confirmed by his slightly foreign accent and the num- 
 ber and profoundness of the bows with which he 
 greets us. 
 
 Mr. Batty's wife, who has placed herself behind 
 him, is unmistakably of our nation. 
 
 Those red cheeks, keen eyes, and that hungry 
 mouth, the rows of systematic ringlets, ill-fitting dress, 
 and slovenly shoes are imported, not native. (At sight 
 of Mrs. Batty, I mentally resolve to avoid a bargain 
 with her.) 
 
 Mrs. Batty curtseys low, Mr. Batty bows profoundly. 
 In this manner we are ushered up many flights of 
 steep stairs. Practice has given the Battys a facility 
 of standing at certain angles, and bowing — regardless 
 of consequences. 
 
 Being, as I said, personally polite, I try to imitate 
 them — and narrowly escape falling headlong. So I am 
 forced — spite of my natural instinct to return a lady's 
 salutation — to abstain and follow, Frederick at my 
 heels, muttering scraps of Eton vocabulary I do not de- 
 sire to hear, certainly not favourable to the establish- 
 ment. 
 
 At last we reach a landing-place on the second 
 floor, and before I can speak, Mr. and Mrs. Batty — I 
 don't know which, they act so simultaneously — amid a 
 profusion of bows, open a door, before which hangs 
 an embroidered curtain. 
 
 Inside is a spacious and handsome salon, looking
 
 lO THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 south. Several large windows stand open, admitting 
 an agreeable perfume of flowers, rising in the evening 
 air — also a charming perspective of valleys and moun- 
 tains. Certainly not a bad place, this Grand Hotel! 
 
 Once safely landed in the salon, I endeavour to 
 return the courtesies these good people have accumu- 
 lated on me in the perilous passage of the stairs. 
 
 I explain to them that my nephew, Mr. Stanley, 
 
 and myself As I mention his name, I look round. 
 
 Frederick, a cigar in one hand, a match in the other, 
 is in the act of lighting it against the embossed gold 
 paper on the wall. After which, he flings the match 
 down, still burning, on the spotless carpet. 
 
 Mrs. Batty rushes forward to extinguish it. I also 
 rush forward. We run against each other. 
 
 "My dear Madam — a thousand pardons! Are you 
 hurt?" 
 
 "Oh, sir! What would that matter, in comparison 
 with an accident to you?" 
 
 Again bows all round. Again curtsies and apolo- 
 gies. Frederick meanwhile placidly smoking, as he 
 leans out of the window, drumming one of those odious 
 negro melodies now in vogue upon the sill. 
 
 "My nephew, Mr. Stanley, and myself," I continue 
 — (I should like to give Fred a hint that he is not at 
 his tutor's) — "only require accommodation for one 
 night." 
 
 "For one night!" ejaculate Mr. and Mrs. Batty in 
 unison. "One night!" As they repeat my words, their 
 countenances fall. They are still respectful, but pro- 
 foundly depressed. Then, as ever, the female voice 
 first finds utterance. 
 
 "We had hoped," Mrs. Batty begins, "that the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I I 
 
 gentlemen intended to make trial of this establishment 
 for some weeks. Many weeks are not too long to visit 
 the various attractions of Siena. 
 
 "Nature and art are both so well represented," 
 Mrs. Batty speaks in a voice and manner which con- 
 vince me she has learned these phrases out of a guide- 
 book. "Our lions are," she continues with a height- 
 ened colour, and a satisfied gleam in her eyes, as of a 
 school-girl glibly repeating her task, "The Cathedral, 
 undoubtedly the finest Gothic monument in the north 
 of Italy— the Church of San Domenico, with reliques 
 of Saint Catherine and frescoes of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury; the municipal palace in the great square, men- 
 tioned by Dante — the house of Santa Caterina, the 
 tutelary saint of Siena. Outside the city," continues 
 Mrs. Batty — with a slight drawl, but evidently de- 
 lighted with herself— and delighting also Mr. Batty, 
 who draws back a step or two, his hands in his capa- 
 cious pockets, listening to her. 
 
 ("Bravo, Mrs. Batty! Pray go on," say I.) 
 "Outside the gates there are many charming 
 drives. Six miles to the mediaeval fortress of Belcaro; 
 one mile to the villa of Vico Bello; four miles to the 
 Benedictine monastery of Pontignano." So elated is 
 Mrs. Batty with the effect she is producing (I was 
 mentally wondering who could have thought it worth 
 while to teach her all this), that she paused to reckon 
 the various places on the tips of her long, cruel-look- 
 ing fingers. 
 
 Taking advantage of this interval, I again explain 
 that my stay must be limited to one night only. I am 
 on my way to Sant' Agata. Is the villa far from 
 Siena?
 
 12 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 At the name of Sant' Agata, a furtive glance passes 
 between the spouses. Then their eyes drop on the 
 carpet. 
 
 "No, Sant' Agata is not far as regards distance." 
 It was the male Batty who spoke. "Oh no! but the 
 road is for the last part bad — very — stony and moun- 
 tainous. When you reach the forest — " 
 
 Here Mr. Batty pauses to take breath, and to 
 glance under his eyelids towards his better-half. 
 
 "When you reach the ilex-forest, the mountains in 
 fact of the Montagnola — Sant' Agata is visible. The 
 woods run down towards the Tuscan Maremma to 
 Grosseto and the sea." 
 
 Evidently Mr. Batty is losing the thread of his 
 discourse, and continues feebly — 
 
 "Evergreen oak is called ilex here. The woods 
 are — a-hem " 
 
 Again Mr. Batty stops. The difficulty of an ad- 
 jective evidently presents itself. His wife's keen eyes 
 are watching him. As he proceeds, she frowns. He 
 is not looking at her at the time, but at me; neverthe- 
 less, an electric affinity makes him conscious of her 
 frown. Perhaps Mr. Batty is too polite to stigmatise 
 the forest and the road by which I am to reach my 
 friend's abode, by an offensive term. He shrugs his 
 shoulders. 
 
 (To shrug his shoulders is invariably an Italian's 
 way out of all manner of difficulties.) 
 
 "I have no personal experience, sir," he adds, as 
 I stare at him. "The road is said to be bad; in some 
 parts, indeed, almost impassable." 
 
 "Strange, very strange," I answer. "Do you mean 
 to tell me that a man of the high rank and vast for-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 13 
 
 tune of my friend, the Marquis Gonzago, lives in a 
 house to which there is no suitable road?" 
 
 Mr. Batty's countenance now undergoes various 
 changes. He spreads out his hands apologetically. 
 
 "I may have been misinformed, honoured sir. I 
 have been told so." 
 
 (At this point Mrs. Batty comes to the front, serene 
 and smiling — "Misinformed," she murmurs, "certainly 
 misinformed.") 
 
 "But it is also said that the habits of the Marquis 
 Gonzago are peculiar." 
 
 Here I can plainly see Mrs. Batty— whose black 
 eyes follow every word her husband utters — touch his 
 elbow, at which Mr. Batty starts, and from hesitating, 
 falls into a stutter. "He believes — he has been told 
 on good authority — that my lord the Marquis prefers 
 solitude. Indeed, a good road might possibly " 
 
 Here he utterly flounders, by reason of the re- 
 proving contraction of his wife's well-defined eyebrows. 
 
 "Do you mean to say the Marquis receives no 
 visitors?" 
 
 "None whatever," is the prompt reply. "He lives 
 alone with his younger brother, the Marquis Sigismund. 
 You, sir, are the first gentleman, as far as we know, 
 who has ever gone there." 
 
 "Strange, very strange!" I repeat, musing. "Is the 
 road to Sant' Agata passable?" 
 
 "Oh yes, passable!" It is Mrs. Batty who now 
 replies. "But the woods are dark and thick; and as 
 to size, boundless! Boundless!" she repeats as if she 
 enjoyed the sonorous intonation of the word. 
 
 Mrs. Batty further opines that a moderately early 
 start is essential, so as not to be overtaken by night.
 
 14 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "No, no; not by night!" echoes Mr. Batty, im- 
 pulsively. 
 
 "Is the forest safe?" 1 ask. 
 
 At this question I indubitably detect mysterious 
 glances between the host and hostess. Neither is 
 in a hurry to reply. Even Mrs. Batty colours and 
 hesitates. 
 
 "Safe?" she repeats, as if to stave off a difficulty. 
 
 "Yes — safe? Do you not understand English, Mrs. 
 Batty?" 
 
 "Oh, sir," with a smile and a curtsey. "You are 
 pleased to be jocular!" 
 
 "Not at all, madam," I answer. "Pray reply to 
 my question." 
 
 "The forest is perfectly safe from robbers, sir, if 
 you mean that," Mr. Batty replies, advancing to the 
 support of his wife. 
 
 Mr. Batty especially emphasises the word "rob- 
 bers." 
 
 "That is enough for me," I answer. Still, as I look 
 at him there is a strange expression about the man's 
 face I cannot understand. He is certainly keeping 
 back something which he, individually, might be in- 
 clined to tell, but which the will of his wife forces 
 him to conceal. 
 
 At this instant, the valiant partner of his heart and 
 home is in full retreat towards the door, with the in- 
 tention — judging by her looks — of carrying her too 
 communicative spouse along with her. 
 
 "You will be good enough," I say, "to order me a 
 carriage and pair of strong horses, to be in readiness 
 for to-morrow. I will fix the time of starting in the 
 morning."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I 5 
 
 "I will take care that the best carriage in Siena 
 awaits your pleasure, sir." 
 
 Mr. Batty's tone is quite hilarious; he feels himself 
 on safe ground. 
 
 "Does the Marquis never come to Siena?" I ask, 
 much puzzled by the obvious reluctance of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Batty to answer plain questions. 
 
 "Never, sir! The palace is shut up. It contains 
 a gallery of pictures and of objects of art almost un- 
 rivalled. I have lived many years in Siena, sir," con- 
 tinues Mr. Batty, "but I have never once had the 
 honour of beholding his Excellency, the Marquis " 
 
 Here I interrupt him by stating that I should like 
 to dine. At this announcement their countenances 
 brighten. 
 
 "Everything is ready," — (they speak together, like 
 a chorus) — "everything always is in readiness on the 
 arrival of the Florence train. The butler shall be 
 sent up with the bill of fare — or there is the table 
 d'hote — either an English, or an Italian menu " 
 
 Then, in a coruscation of bows and curtsies, they 
 leave the room. 
 
 The impression made upon me by Mr. and Mrs. 
 Batty is decidedly unpleasant. Little has been said, 
 but much has been implied. 
 
 "Impudent creatures!" I exclaim, my clenched fist 
 descending heavily on the dining-table, by which I am 
 seated an hour afterwards. "What do they mean to 
 insinuate? How dare they speak as they do of my 
 old friend?" 
 
 Frederick, sitting opposite, looks at me and laughs.
 
 1 6 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "What sort of diggings are you taking me to, 
 uncle?" 
 
 Vexed and worn as I am, I administer a severe 
 reprimand upon the use of slang. 
 
 "Dear old governor," is his reply, "I never pre- 
 tended to be 'taut up' for company." 
 
 Worse and worse! Frederick is amiable and good, 
 and spite of a rough outside, sensitive and impression- 
 able, but a hopeless schoolboy! 
 
 "The Villa Sant' Agata," I say with dignity, "is 
 one of the grandest and most celebrated abodes in 
 Northern Italy. It— er — er — was built by a cardinal, 
 my friend's uncle. It is mentioned in all the guide- 
 books," I add, by way of a clincher. 
 
 Fred does not seem in the least impressed, but 
 opens that wide mouth of his with something I must 
 call a grin. 
 
 I am getting ruffled. I feci it. I am perhaps un- 
 reasonably out of temper, but I speak in a calm, 
 judicial tone. 
 
 "Remember, young gentleman, when I obtained 
 leave for you to accompany me to Italy, instead of 
 spending your vacation in reading with a tutor, it was 
 understood that you were to accept my plans implicitly. 
 Bear this in mind when you refer to my old friend 
 and schoolfellow, the Marquis Gonzago, head of one 
 of the oldest families in Italy." 
 
 "I am quite ready to appreciate all you say, 
 uncle," Fred answers, with another provoking smile, 
 "quite ready. Still I must say that your illustrious 
 friend seems to be, by all accounts, rather a rum card." 
 
 I gasp with indignation, but 1 am fully aware that 
 no protests can stop the boy.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 17 
 
 "Don't get riled, uncle," adds good-tempered Fred, 
 coming over to me and kissing me; "to-morrow we 
 will invade the ogre in his inaccessible castle — brave 
 the terrors of the forest and the outlandish trees old 
 Boniface here talks about — and scramble up the road 
 which is impassable. By Jove! it's just like Beauty 
 and the Beast! Your friend is the Beast — but the 
 Beauty! Ha, ha! Good night, Uncle Lucius. I'm 
 dead with sleep." 
 
 II. 
 
 The Marquis Anzano Gonzago was my old chum 
 and schoolfellow. We had never met since boyhood, 
 but a romantic halo had ever surrounded his name. 
 When I made up my mind to pay him a visit at Sant' 
 Agata, a kind of juvenile ecstasy possessed me. 
 
 "Ah, why have you not come before, my Lucius?" 
 was the first phrase in the letter he wrote in reply to 
 my proposal for a meeting. "Better for me had we 
 never parted," was the last sentence. 
 
 This letter, received at Florence, was a well-de- 
 served reproof. 
 
 I had often been in Italy, but something had 
 always intervened to prevent my going to Siena. Now, 
 every mile that drew me nearer to him made me feel 
 younger, gayer, more expansive. I longed for the 
 morning to come, I pined to hear his familiar voice, 
 to touch his hand, to see his handsome face. To meet 
 him again would be to live once more in the sunshine 
 of my youth, to feel the throb of eager pulses. Oh, 
 
 The Red Cardinal. 2
 
 I 8 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 boyhood! sweet are thy days! Why — oh, why are they 
 delusive? 
 
 Anzano and I had first met, at the respective ages 
 of ten and fourteen, at a preparatory school in Lan- 
 cashire, kept by a Mr. Stitchome, a tutor. The num- 
 ber of pupils was limited to twelve, "which number no 
 entreaty, however urgent, no bribe, however magni- 
 ficent, on the part of parents, would induce him to 
 exceed. For," continued Mr. Septimus Stitchome, in 
 the doubtful grammar which characterised his illu- 
 minated prospectus, freely distributed among the 
 Catholic families of the United Kingdom, "as a man 
 of honour, he was well aware that the resources of his 
 limited establishment could not suitably accommodate 
 more, with justice to himself and a due regard to his 
 patrons' interests; his constant and daily endeavour 
 being to bestow on each pupil, not only a high class 
 instruction, but a due share in the advantages of a 
 home containing all the luxuries of a well-furnished 
 residence, the incalculable blessings arising from the 
 motherly affection and wholesome cooking of his wife, 
 Mrs. Stitchome, and the fatherly eye of the principal 
 himself, whose life's labour and supremest happiness 
 it was to inculcate habits of devotion to the one true 
 Church in a land of heretics, and to advance his I 
 pupils in the classical curriculum." ' 
 
 In a few words, we twelve boys were all Roman 
 Catholics, preparing under his guidance for admit- i 
 tance into the college of Stonyhurst. 
 
 Thinking of Anzano, I recalled the dilapidated old 
 manor house, once our home. Built of grey stone, 
 the walls eaten into by moss and lichen of every hue 
 from yellow to black, and from black to grey and
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. IQ 
 
 sad-coloured white; tufts of fern and wallflower sprout- 
 ing from the cracks and crevices after years of un- 
 disturbed growth; and dormer windows peeping out 
 over the parapet, like living witnesses of misdeeds. 
 
 How plainly it all rises before me! The old 
 walls, the low roof, the heavy sculptured cornice and 
 ancient carvings, initials and arabesques, incongruously 
 imbedded in the front, the whole trellised with vines 
 trained upwards in a net-work of branches, which 
 tapped ominously on our window-panes on windy 
 nights. 
 
 Behind the house lay a quaint convent garden, 
 shut in by lofty walls, pierced on one side by a range 
 of Norman arches; the garden divided into formal 
 gravel-walks, edged with box, and backed by espaliered 
 apple-trees; the space between the box and the 
 espaliers dedicated to flowers, cultivated by Mrs. 
 Stitchome, a fierce-looking dame, with a pallid coun- 
 tenance, long, red nose, and black front of curls, ar- 
 ranged under a battered man's hat — attired in a 
 smock-frock, which descended to her heels. The 
 flowers, I say, cultivated by Mrs. Stitchome, with much 
 more motherly care — spite the assertion in the il- 
 luminated prospectus — than she bestowed on us pupils, 
 whom she cuffed and spoiled by turns, on a system of 
 her own, founded, as far as I could observe, upon the 
 strength of the potations of which she partook at our 
 early dinner; beer inclining her to sleep and good- 
 humour, gin-and-water to fury and blows. 
 
 Of our studies I remember little, except that the 
 fatherly eyes of our tutor dwelt often on a birch-rod, 
 hung over a carved cupboard beside the wide aper- 
 ture of a fire-place in the school-room — once the hall
 
 20 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 of the manor-house — which birch-rod I, on one oc- 
 casion — after having suffered repeated thrashings — in 
 fair fight, and carrying with me the silent applause of 
 the whole school, wrested from Stitchome's hands and 
 broke, dashing the fragments in his face. 
 
 For this feat the tutor threatened expulsion, but 
 subsequently relented. "For," as Mrs. Stitchome feel- 
 ingly observed in one of her dulcet moods, while I 
 was helping her to plant crocuses in her flower 
 borders, "Stitchome was that good, he could never 
 be brought to punish his enemies, much less a dear 
 little Catholic boy like you, Anstruther — let alone the 
 pay, and the time I have waited to have a new black 
 silk dress to go to the college chapel." 
 
 Chapel! How I wonder any human being could 
 ever enter that chapel except on compulsion! Oh! 
 the torture of early mass on frosty mornings! placed 
 as we were in a remote corner far from the stove, 
 under a Gothic window, with careful openings for 
 ventilation, gazing helplessly on our own breath curl- 
 ing in a bluish vapour round our bare heads, as we 
 tottered on our numbed feet, holding on by the pew 
 ledges. 
 
 The cold of these northern winters nearly killed 
 my friend, the poor little foreigner, who went to hospital 
 for some weeks, after one specially frosty Sunday, to 
 emerge at last, wrapped up by Mrs. Stitchome in wool 
 and flannels, like a sick canary. 
 
 My friend, known in the school as "Saunders," 
 his real name being Count Anzano Gonzago (he had 
 not then inherited the title of marquis from his 
 father, nor the vast estates of his uncle, the Cardinal 
 Flavio), was much petted by Mrs. Stitchome, not from
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 21 
 
 the slightest consideration for his rank, which she was 
 far too hazy to appreciate, but from the fact which 
 she did arrive at understanding, that as the son of a 
 great Italian nobleman and the nephew of a cardinal, 
 he might serve as a useful bait by Avhich to catch 
 foreign pupils. 
 
 She would take the aristocratic little Anzano on 
 her voluminous lap after dinner — spite of his desperate 
 struggles to get free — and cry over him, calling him 
 in a thick voice: "A blessed little gentleman, sent to 
 comfort her, who ate but little, and never wore holes 
 in his socks. You are all vulgar beasts by the side 
 of him — vulgar, common beasts!" she cried, gazing 
 vaguely round, and menacing us with her fists. After 
 which outbreak, a copious flood of tears would roll 
 down her cheeks, to be followed by a long sleep, 
 during which her equanimity was restored. 
 
 On warm summer days, after dinner, Mrs. Stitchome 
 reposed on a stone bench, in front of the manor house, 
 under the shadow of a looping-on stone. 
 
 Here she would doze, while the ducks and hens 
 gathered round her feet, pecking at her draggled 
 skirts and old shoes. If any one passed, she would 
 open her heavy eyes for a moment, address some re- 
 mark to them more forcible than polite, then doze off 
 again. But if she caught sight of "Saunders," she 
 would call him to her peremptorily, and overwhelm 
 him with kisses. 
 
 I fear neither "Saunders" nor myself distinguished 
 ourselves by the rapid acquisition of knowledge, in- 
 culcated by our tutor's birch-rod. Stitchome was a 
 homely man, but he was a scholar, and did his duty 
 by us as far as we would let him.
 
 22 TIIE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Anzano, gifted with a fine memory and lively 
 fancy, loved study, but unfortunately he loved my 
 company more. 
 
 I was attracted to him by the irresistible force of 
 contrast. He, gende, tender, poetical — I, active, 
 boisterous, and ready for any mischief — it was I who 
 made him idle. I hated the Latin grammars, also the 
 Delectus, and every other book of the kind, and 
 avenged myself on them by kicking them round the 
 room instead of learning my lessons. 
 
 When I did apply myself, it was the events of 
 actual life which interested me. I did make real 
 efforts to construe the stirring pages of Caesar — easy 
 Latin, too — over which I ambled without encounter- 
 ing too many pitfalls. Later, the battles of Homer, 
 and such litde bits of Xenophon as I could under- 
 stand, attracted me vastly. I, too, took my place at 
 the siege of Troy — I heard the shrill cries of Cas- 
 sandra, beheld Hector at the wheel of Achilles' chariot 
 dragged round the walls, Andromache's despair, and 
 the flames of the doomed city mount upwards blazing 
 to the skies. 
 
 Then the scene changed. I was carrying my 
 spear in the ranks of that heroic little band of the 
 "Ten Thousand," gallantly retreating over the Eastern 
 plains in the teeth of their foes. With them I suf- 
 fered hunger and thirst, the prick of the Persian darts, 
 and the wounds their flying javelins inflicted. All 
 this I could understand and appreciate. 
 
 My friend's more passionate nature dwelt rather 
 on the weird and the poetic. The tragic woes of Dido 
 described in the long hexameters of Virgil drew tears 
 from his eyes, spite of the jeers of our tutor and the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 2^ 
 
 scorn of the older boys. He, dear fellow, sympathised, 
 but understood not; and once, amid the titter of the 
 whole school, asked Stitchome, "Why Dido was so un- 
 happy after she came out of the cave?" 
 
 The sparkling wit and suppressed irony of Horace 
 found no response in Anzano's tender soul, while I, 
 as far as my ignorance could compass it, revelled 
 in it. 
 
 But it was at a later period, when we were pro- 
 moted into Greek tragedy, that the difference in our 
 tastes became most apparent. Anzano's mystery- 
 loving nature developed into a passionate delight in 
 the study of Euripides and Sophocles, while I, on the 
 contrary, shirked what I stoutly maintained "could 
 never have happened ," mocked at the theories of in- 
 exorable fate, and derided the great goddess Nemesis 
 with her train of black-winged Erinnys. 
 
 As to Anzano he surrendered himself blindfold to 
 the terrible spell, he grew pale and trembled; and 
 with his large dark eyes riveted on the page, de- 
 voured every detail of those monstrous crimes and 
 nameless horrors which the system of modern tuition 
 opens to the mind of the ingenuus puer. 
 
 "What have you to do with an avenging deity, 
 old boy?" I used to ask him, laughing at his awe- 
 struck face. "You will never commit a crime." 
 
 "Who knows?" he would gravely reply, looking 
 steadfastly at me. "Who knows what may happen to 
 me before I die? I may not commit a crime myself, 
 but I may fall under the power of fate by another, as 
 Orestes did through his mother, Clytemnestra. If 
 you would work up your Greek, Lucius, you would 
 understand that the punishments of Nemesis often fall
 
 24 1HE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 upon the most innocent people. Why, even Herodotus 
 believed in Nemesis, and he was not a poet." 
 
 I often found Anzano in summer time, stretched 
 on the grass under a tree, poring over the ghastly- 
 story of CEdipus Tyrannus, in a daze of rapturous 
 horror, muttering to himself the Avords of that terrible 
 soliloquy : 
 
 "^f quick, in the name of heaven! Hide me! Or 
 slay vie! Or cast me into the sea that you ynay never 
 see me more! Hear me, and fear not! For there is no 
 living man can bear such suffering as I!" 
 
 "Go away, Lucius!" he would shriek out, when 
 
 he saw me approaching. "I am CEdipus! I have 
 
 married my mother, and murdered my father, and the 
 
 gods have cursed me!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 But oh! the ecstasy of hanging up our gowns and 
 caps on the pegs in the schoolroom, and running out, 
 bare-headed, into the fresh free air! 
 
 From the walled garden I have mentioned, with 
 the straight gravel walks bordered by espaliered apple 
 trees, we passed through the Norman arches into what 
 had once been a fine old shrubbery and orchard, 
 now run wild, the green sward serving as pasture for 
 a few sheep ("muttons" Anzano always called them), 
 to be slaughtered for the benefit of the school. As 
 the grass was useful, the shrubbery was also utilised 
 as a run for pigs and calves, the calves not roaming 
 at will like the pigs, but fastened disconsolately to 
 the apple trees. 
 
 Overhead spread a delicious tangle of laburnums, 
 syringas, lilacs, and guelder-roses, broken by a larger 
 growth of elms and horse-chestnuts. Cherry-trees
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 25 
 
 came later — shrouded in a white pall, as though snow 
 had fallen — also sloes and hawthorns; the yellow 
 laburnums twisted their golden ringlets, and the pure 
 syringa strewed the ground with petals. 
 
 Exquisite old wilderness! How I loved it! Espe- 
 cially in the spring-time, when the soft winds showered 
 down flowers in our faces, and the pollen of the grasses 
 covered our feet! 
 
 How sweetly the birds sang too, the rooks perched 
 high up in the elm-trees, cawing sagaciously; on fine 
 days, the old ones gravely circling round the tree-tops 
 like senators, then returning sedately to the same 
 branch from which they had started, chattering low to 
 the young ones, hurriedly fluttering up and down! 
 
 "Saunders" never delighted in the outward face of 
 nature as I did; he was too much engrossed in Greek 
 fatalism. But he walked serenely in and out among 
 the shrubs, with a calm, pensive countenance, or aided 
 me in my daily endeavours to drive off the abomin- 
 able sheep from nibbling the tree-trunks: "a labour," 
 as he observed, "as endless at that of Sisyphus." 
 
 What treasures to us boys, too, lay hidden beneath 
 the quick-set hedges framing the flat green fields, 
 warm and dry under a range of hills, pale in the dis- 
 tance. On these hills our eyes rested dreamily, as on 
 the outskirts of an enchanted world, too remote and 
 mysterious to be trodden by foot of mortal man. 
 
 Autumn was very grand at Stitchome's, the scarlet 
 haws wreathing the hawthorns, side by side with the 
 flame-coloured hips of the hedge-rose; and luxuriant 
 blackberries to be plucked from among sharp brambles. 
 It is true we often streaked our hands with blood as 
 well as with juice; but the blackberries tasted none
 
 26 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 the less sweet. The deadly nightshade twined in 
 dangerous proximity to the blackberries and trails of 
 bryony and white-bearded clematis besides, — the brown 
 fibres of the hop, as strong as whip-cord, binding the 
 whole together in a woodland knot. 
 
 Later on, coveys of young partridges came, whir- 
 ring over the ground to nestle among the furrows, and 
 now and then we caught sight of a majestic pheasant 
 — while, well to the south-west, the pale yellow sun- 
 sets cast gleams of coming frosts, and sombre mists 
 gathered under the hills. 
 
 "But," as I often told Anzano, "Give me May and 
 June when I am king! Then the earth is large, the 
 days long, the very nights are full of light, and glori- 
 ous with stars. Sweet smells come up from the earth 
 after rain-showers, and plums and gooseberries are 
 ripe." 
 
 To which the dear boy, looking up from his book, 
 would respond sweetly, as he always did, in his rich, 
 musical voice, that "I was quite right, only he was 
 happy with me, whatever was the season." 
 
 It would have been very jolly in the long frosts to 
 catch birds in brick-traps; but alas! concerning these 
 traps, Anzano and I ceased to be of one mind. He, 
 with his southern blood a-flame, vociferating, and 
 furious at what he called my "cruelty," would seize 
 the captive bird in his soft-skinned hands, kiss its 
 frightened beady eyes, then fling it upwards trium- 
 phantly into the air. 
 
 Alas! for "cruel vie"! Was there ever such a 
 place as these hedge-rows for nests? But, with An- 
 zano by my side, the nests were as impossible as the 
 bird-traps. I dared not so much as trust myself to
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 2"] 
 
 look at them. He would have left me for ever (he 
 said so) had I meddled with the eggs, or worse still, 
 had I handled the young ones. I could only walk 
 along beside him with my eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 Any school-boy will understand what I suffered. 
 There birds by hundreds— cuckoos and jays, thrushes 
 and blackbirds, and wrens and robins — all hopping 
 about, pecking at the rose-berries and bryony, and 
 laughing at me! 
 
 I speak of my sacrifices to friendship in the mat- 
 ter of brick-traps and birds'-nests. This was not all. 
 To please Anzano, I gave up cricket, foot-ball, and 
 leap-frog. For this I was jeered at — even threatened 
 — by the rest of the school, as if I had been a criminal. 
 Anzano himself would not speak to the other boys, so 
 they were forced to leave him alone. But I, more am- 
 bitious, desired to stand well with both parties. 
 
 Need I say I failed, as signally as does the Chris- 
 stian who tries to serve God and Mammon! 
 
 When the distant shouts of our comrades reached 
 us from the cricket-field, Anzano and I were often 
 lounging, side by side, on the banks of a sluggish 
 river, bordered by alders, forming the assigned limit 
 to our playground; the heavy scent of the meadow- 
 sweet and pink willow-wand wafted to us as we lay, 
 and beds of white water-lilies calmly sleeping before 
 us on the stream. 
 
 Once, I remember, he wrote an ode to a water- 
 lily. After much hesitation as to which metre he 
 should select, he chose the Alexandrine. The ode (it 
 was in Italian, of course), began: "White Mermaid 
 Queen!" which when I heard, I burst into a fit of 
 laughter. It seemed so odd a lily should have a scaly
 
 28 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 tail like a fish! He, dear fellow, much mortified, tore 
 up the paper and shed tears. 
 
 He was sensitive and superstitious to excess. He 
 believed in the evil eye and in witchcraft, and made 
 "horns" whenever he passed a squinting old labourer 
 who assisted Mrs. Stitchome in the cultivation of her 
 borders. Also he believed firmly in an actual, pre- 
 sent devil, who would attack him with horns and 
 hoofs, if he were not guarded by a medallion of the 
 Virgin, sewn up in a little satin bag that hung round 
 his neck. 
 
 As to ghosts and spirits, he was an unconscious 
 polytheist, so thickly had he peopled every spot with 
 supernatural presences. Wherever four roads met must 
 be haunted ground, with certainly a corpse buried 
 there. Damp, dark corners made him shiver and cling 
 closer to me; the baying of a dog at night was the cry 
 of a passing spirit, and a peculiar sighing of the wind 
 before rain the flutter of angels' wings, hovering about 
 to catch good children and carry them away. 
 
 As he grew older, I ridiculed him out of many of 
 these fancies, but to the last, a narrow staircase at the 
 old manor-house, leading to a dormitory in the roof, 
 where we two slept alone, in two white dimity-cur- 
 tained beds, no power on earth would induce him to 
 pass alone at night. 
 
 Trembling like a leaf, he often woke me to declare 
 he heard footsteps stopping at our door (I am free to 
 confess my knees shook under me as I rose in bed to 
 listen), and once he nearly terrified me to death by 
 whispering in my ear that a white face was peering 
 at him through a chink in the wall; but as I could 
 see nothing, and the door was locked when our as-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 2g 
 
 sistant tutor came at the usual hour next morning to 
 call us, I tried to forget all about the white face put- 
 ting it down to Anzano's fancy. 
 
 At length the time came for us to enter the col- 
 lege at Stonyhurst — a melancholy occasion, on which 
 Mrs. Stitchome's feelings so far overcame her that she 
 was carried off to bed, hopelessly drunk. 
 
 At Stonyhurst we lived necessarily much less in 
 each other's company. Our mutual affection remained 
 undiminished, but the expression of it was curtailed. 
 
 Social distinction had gone for nothing at Stitchome's. 
 Not so at college. My friend, as the nephew of Car- 
 dinal Gonzago — known to stand high in papal favour 
 — was the object of general attention. Our priestly 
 professors allowed no occasion to pass without marking 
 the immeasurable difference between Gonzago and 
 myself. I was but the son of a Catholic gentleman of 
 good descent and average fortune. Anzano came of 
 an historic line, boasting the names of great prince's, 
 popes, ambassadors and generals. 
 
 If anything could have drawn him out of the 
 dreamy existence he had hitherto led, it would have 
 been the homage of which he now involuntarily be- 
 came the object. But his nature was too steadfast, his 
 heart too true, to allow the subtle poison of flattery 
 seriously to affect him. Never was he so happy as 
 when he could break away from these attentions and 
 wander about with me in his old aimless way — fling- 
 ing himself down on the grass under an overspreading 
 oak, or in the sheltered hollow of a mound, one of 
 those very hills we had sighed after in the pale dis- 
 tance, as enchanted ground. 
 
 While I smoked, he would take a volume of his
 
 30 TliE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 favourite Euripides from his pocket, and forget all, 
 except that we were together. 
 
 "Dear old Lucius!" he would say, suddenly re- 
 calling my presence, and lifting up those speaking 
 eyes of his to mine. "Dear old Lucius, keep near me 
 — it does me good!" 
 
 I cannot say that my feeling towards him was 
 entirely free from some suspicion of envy. Until we 
 became students at college I had been his superior, 
 his adviser, his protector. Now the tables were turned. 
 "Saunders" was everything — I nothing. The highest 
 place at table, the most prominent position on all oc- 
 casions of ceremony, was assigned to him. All his 
 exhibitions were applauded — his health, his comfort, 
 the subject of anxious solicitude — while I, his elder, 
 came up in the ruck of the college. No professor was 
 moved to praise my bad Latin verses, and I might 
 have lain in hospital a year before one of the authorities 
 would have taken any heed of me. 
 
 Reflecting on these supposed wrongs in private, 
 my heart grew big; but when I came under the spell 
 of Anzano's generous nature, all was forgotten. To 
 him I never dared hint a consciousness of my too 
 evident social inferiority. He could not help it, and 
 the fact would only have distressed him beyond 
 words. 
 
 There are certain natures so absolutely simple in 
 their perfect loyalty — so essentially modest under all 
 vicissitudes of life — that the grosser passions are un- 
 known to them. Of such a nature was Anzano! 
 
 Called upon to take his place, on grand occasions, 
 with men of the highest rank — Catholic magnates and 
 celebrated professors — he acquitted himself with grace
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 3 I 
 
 and self-possession. Never, for an instant, did he en- 
 croach on the fortuitous accident of his birth, but was 
 ready, in a moment, to fall back, a unit amongst the 
 multitude. 
 
 At length the time for our examination grew near. 
 In power of concentrated thought on special subjects, 
 I beat Anzano hollow. My health was more robust, 
 my cast of mind firmer and more masculine. His 
 studies wanted precision. He had read too long and 
 too much only to satisfy the cravings of his peculiar 
 fancy. I, on the contrary, had come later, to grasp 
 knowledge for its own sake. 
 
 Once more my old superiority asserted itself. I 
 took a high place. Anzano would have failed utterly, 
 but for the manifest favour shown him by the ex- 
 aminers, anxious to exhibit his name and rank to the 
 observation of the public. 
 
 I feel now, as I write, though such long years have 
 passed, the pressure of his arms round my neck, after 
 the result of the examinations were announced. Tears 
 dimmed his dark eyes. 
 
 "I am heart-broken, Lucius!" he said, "humiliated! 
 Your success only reconciles me to life. Else I think 
 I should drown myself." 
 
 Then came the parting ! — the vows of eternal friend- 
 ship — the promises of a constant correspondence. The 
 vows of friendship — on my side at least — are still un- 
 broken; but the letters! Not a line ever passed be- 
 tween us, until I wrote the other day from Florence, 
 offering to pay him a visit. It was then that he re- 
 plied with the reproachful words I have already men- 
 tioned :
 
 ^2 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "// would have been better for us both, Lucius, had 
 
 you never left me!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 From time to time, up and down in the world, I 
 had heard of him. His father died soon after he left 
 Stonyhurst. Many years later, his uncle, Cardinal 
 Flavio Gonzago, died also, and Anzano inherited his 
 vast estates. I heard of his brilliant career, not only 
 in the great centres of Italy, but at Paris and Vienna. 
 England he never re-visited, and by some fatality I 
 invariably missed him elsewhere. 
 
 And now, after a separation of nearly five-and- 
 twenty years — actually arrived within nine miles of his 
 residence — a discord had been struck in the harmony 
 of our meeting, by the vulgar gossip of the landlord 
 of the Grand Hotel ! 
 
 All sorts of doubts and surmises kept rising in my 
 mind. How should I find him? Would he be greatly 
 changed? Would the presence of his younger brother 
 chill our intercourse? Would the contrast between the 
 powerful noble and the poetic youth be too much for 
 me? Was he really glad to see me? After his letter, 
 I felt this was a foolish doubt; but I was in a mood 
 to doubt everything. 
 
 Should I find him, as these people had insinuated, 
 prematurely aged and saddened? What motive could 
 he have for becoming such an absolute recluse? What 
 could have altered the current of his life, which I 
 knew had, for many years, been such as befitted his 
 rank and fortune? 
 
 I felt agitated and disturbed. At last, I actually 
 came to the point of doubting whether I had done 
 right to come at all, after the lapse of so many years.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 33 
 
 Might it not be an intrusion on the habits he liad 
 adopted? How was it possible — if he led the life 
 described to me — that I should be welcome? 
 
 Pursued by these distressing thoughts, I finally 
 took refuge in bed. Even there they pursued me. 
 After tossing about for some time, I heard a church 
 clock strike twelve. The stroke sounded to me like a 
 funeral knell. The funeral of whom — — ? 
 
 At length I fell into an uneasy sleep, and dreamed 
 that I was wandering in a dense wood of black, un- 
 earthly trees. Before me rose the outline of a statue, 
 battered and worn. It stood aloft on a pedestal. An 
 indescribable horror seized me as I gazed at the 
 empty, cavernous eyes, grinning, toothless mouth, and 
 shattered, moss-grown limbs. Under the statue, huddled 
 in a heap, lay what looked like a human form. The 
 face was turned to me. In the dim light I beheld the 
 emaciated features of Anzano. 
 
 I awoke in terror. So distinct was the scene — so 
 life-like — it seemed less a dream than a vision— the 
 place, the pale moonlight, and my poor friend's dis- 
 torted countenance ! 
 
 Then I slept again — a long and tranquil sleep — ■ 
 until the brilliance of the autumnal sun beaming into 
 my room, forcibly chased from my mind every feeling 
 but that of enjoyment. 
 
 END OF PROLOGUE. 
 
 The Rpil Cardinal.
 
 THE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On the afternoon of the next day, Fred and 1 took 
 leave of Mr. and Mrs. Batty and drove out of Siena 
 by the San Marco gate. 
 
 It was very hot. 
 
 We had been tempted by the splendid Cathedral, 
 which moved even Frederick to admiration, and the 
 many churches and galleries, to make our start later 
 in the day than we intended. The grand old city, 
 throned, like Rome, on many hills, its domes and pin- 
 nacles clasped together by a zone of Cyclopean walls, 
 lay behind. In front a perfect sea of mountains, the 
 summits wrapped in a hot ha/.e; but loftier and grander 
 than all the rest the double crown of Monte Amiata 
 rose clear in the brazen sky, and the dark scoring of 
 unnumbered valleys and defiles, marked the incessant 
 heaving of the land. 
 
 So far the road was excellent, but steep and tor- 
 tuous. Tlie distance from Siena to Sant' Agata is 
 nine miles. That does not look much on paper, but 
 it is necessary to know wliat nine miles means on a 
 mountain road in Italy. Five hours' driving at the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 35 
 
 very least! There is no twilight; evening is coming 
 on, and we have barely reached half the distance. 
 
 At this moment we are climbing a steep ascent, 
 two miles long. The horses are streaming; Frederick 
 and I more than agreeably warm; the sun is scorch- 
 ing, and there are myriads of flies, quite impartial as 
 to which they bite — us or the horses. 
 
 Now a broad flat stretch of land lies before us, 
 dividing a richly cultivated plain. Here, too, there 
 are mountains — "The Montagnola," mentioned by Mrs. 
 Batty — extending to Grosseto in the Tuscan Maremma 
 and the seaboard at Piombino. 
 
 Dear Italy! Find me an outlook from Ivrea to 
 Taranto without mountains. 
 
 As we pass, we note the vines, festooned from tree 
 to tree, laden with juicy grapes blackening for the 
 harvest. The corn is yellow in the husk, the pointed 
 leaves of the maize already fallen back withered from 
 the stalk. There are the blue flowers of the hemp, 
 the red blossoms of the saintfoin, and peach and fig- 
 trees growing in between. 
 
 Now the road takes a turn to the right, up an in- 
 cline, towards a circular chapel, of yellow, unbaked 
 bricks, with a flat roof and stone portico; a group of 
 dark pine trees overhead. The yellow walls glisten 
 (they would burn the hand, I am sure, if it touched 
 them). A little bell rings from the belfry, and a wo- 
 man with gold pins in her hair, and a lace hand- 
 kerchief folded over her red stays, looks out of a door 
 adjoining, probably the presbytery. 
 
 As we slowly ascend the rise, a brown-skinned 
 clerk— a shock of matted hair falling over his eyes, 
 and wearing a dirty shirt — rushes forward. 
 
 3*
 
 36 IHE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "Gentlemen — honoured gentlemen!" he cries in a 
 shrill voice. "Stop! listen!" 
 
 andWe who are in the carriage — I, who am speaking, 
 Fred — listen, but cannot stop, for the simple reason 
 that we have no control over our driver. 
 
 Filippo, a stalwart youth, whom we engaged in the 
 Piazza at Siena, where we with difficulty escaped skin 
 whole from other drivers seeking a job — Filippo, I 
 say, his reins well in hand, his brigand hat jauntily 
 set on one side, a red carnation in his ear, has no in- 
 tention either of listening or drawing rein. 
 
 We see this in the erectness of his back and the 
 squareness of his shoulders. We see that he despises 
 the ragged clerk, the little roadside church of unburnt 
 bricks, and the tinkling bell. Does he not dwell in a 
 city where there is a cathedral of white marble, 
 challenging all others, beautiful as a dream, and so 
 vast that it covers an acre of land? A cathedral with 
 a roof whereon stands an army of sculptured saints 
 and martyrs, facing the blue sky, among minarets and 
 domes, arches and pilasters? 
 
 "Gentlemen — good gentlemen! Stop, for the love 
 of heaven!" again shouts the clerk, addressing us in- 
 side. And as he shouts, he digs his tawny hands into 
 his hair, then endeavours to seize the bridles. 
 
 Before I can speak, Filippo lashes his horses for- 
 ward. 
 
 "Catiaglia! — pig!" he shrieks, springing on the 
 splashboard, and whirling his whip aloft. "Loose my 
 horses, or I will slay thee!" 
 
 "Gentlemen — oh, pious gentlemen!" cries the clerk, 
 as he wrestles with the animals, who plunge and rear 
 "By the sacred God of the world, what would you do?"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 37 
 
 I am going to speak, when Fred interrupts me. 
 
 "Uncle Lucius!" he cries, in the wildest excite- 
 ment, "why do you interfere? Let them fight it out, 
 the cripples! My stars! What a lark!" 
 
 In a quiet way I am almost as much excited as 
 Fred. I want to see who will get the best of it. 
 
 Resolutely, and despite of Filippo's whip whistling 
 round his head, and of the horses' hoofs rattling about 
 him, the clerk grasps the reins. 
 
 "Listen! Do you not know? It is the day of 
 St. John! The procession! The body of the Lord! 
 See, yonder it comes!" 
 
 Now it is my turn to spring to my feet. 
 
 "If you do not stop," I cry out to Filippo, "I will 
 summon you before the Questura at Siena."
 
 38 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A PAUSE ensues. Frederick, also on his feet, urges 
 on Filippo by his gestures. But he drops the reins, 
 and shakes his head in silence. 
 
 I pull Frederick back on the seat, giving him my 
 opinion of his interference in one or two forcible words. 
 
 The clerk has withdrawn his hand; the horses quiet 
 themselves. Only the little bell overhead rings out 
 louder than before, swinging wildly on its cord, and 
 overbalancing itself in its zeal. 
 
 Softly, out of the delicate blue-green of the olives, 
 a low chant arises — a muffled chant as of a swarm of 
 bees. Louder and louder it comes, rising on the still 
 air. At length a long black trail appears upon the 
 dusty road — a procession bristling with lighted torches 
 and tapers carried by some fifty peasants, walking two 
 and two. Every eye is cast down, every mouth open, 
 intoning the sing-song litanies. 
 
 One man in front, wrinkled by the labour of some 
 seventy years, bears a white staft" which he brandishes 
 aloft; a gold star cut out in paper pinned, like an 
 order, on his breast. 
 
 "Here's a go!" cries Frederick, staring with all his 
 eyes. "I say, uncle " 
 
 Alas! nothing impresses that boy. As a Catholic, 
 I am deeply affected. The devotion of these poor 
 people is most touching.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 3g 
 
 On they come, slowly, slowly. A crucifix, some 
 eight feet high, gaudily gilt, the sponge, hammer, nails 
 and spear conspicuous; at the top a crown of thorns. 
 More peasants, two and two, a deeper drone in their 
 voices. A faded tabernacle, red and yellow, suspended 
 on four gilt poles, and under the tabernacle the parish 
 priest, in his hands the Host, raised high above his 
 head. 
 
 I soon came to know that priest better. 
 
 His name is Don Antonio Perletti, and the name 
 of his little church San Martino al Monte. 
 
 Don Antonio presents the aspect of a man not 
 old, but prematurely shrivelled. He does not work in 
 the fields like the peasants, but he looks almost as 
 much a countryman as they. 
 
 The effect of all this on our driver is amazing. 
 Not only has he ranged his horses reverently on one 
 side, but he himself is kneeling — his hat beside him 
 - — in the road. If either of the horses, stung by an 
 especially aggravating fly, kicks, he mutters under his 
 breath : 
 
 "A thousand curses! Have you no religion, Bestia, 
 when you see the Santissimo?" 
 
 Then he crosses himself, stoops down and kisses 
 the earth. 
 
 "What a brick that fellow is!" exclaims Fred, in 
 a burst of genuine admiration. I am glad to say he 
 also has taken off his hat, and is behaving with unusual 
 propriety. 
 
 Meanwhile, the procession passes into the church, 
 the peasants crowd in after, and all kneel at the 
 altar. 
 
 Filippo is on his feet again, seizes the reins, vaults
 
 40 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 upon the box, cocks his hat, gives a twitch to the 
 carnation behind his ear, cracks his whip and starts 
 off at a rapid trot. 
 
 Sharp to the right we turn. 
 
 "Is this a road?" I excLiim audibly. 
 
 "No, uncle," responds Frederick. "A sheep-track. 
 You were forewarned. We are approaching the en- 
 chanted castle. Remember Mr. Batty." 
 
 I do think of him and sigh. 
 
 Red-soiled, rocky and as steep as a house-side — a 
 pretty road indeed! On either hand, the outskirts of 
 an immense ilex-wood, covering the heights which rise 
 above our heads; low, stunted trees with dark shining 
 leaves; here and there a cypress or a juniper — the 
 roots clinging to mossy boulders, and thyme and heather 
 growing between. 
 
 As we mount higher and higher, into the mystery 
 of the great wood, a magnificence of trunk and limb, 
 a splendour of ever-green foliage, enshrouds us in a 
 fantastic gloom. Not a plant or tree of lively green. 
 The rays of the setting sun strike through the branches 
 in horizontal lines; below, open out deep ravines and 
 precipitous dingles, where copper-coloured rocks pro- 
 trude, and stony avalanches mark the site of winter 
 torrents. 
 
 Filippo allows the reins to drop on the necks of 
 his wiry little horses. They pant; their sides are 
 streaming — the flies stick to them in shoals. Vainly 
 does he pass his whip over them — they return again 
 instantly. 
 
 "This road is of Satan," he mutters. "His work 
 when he fought with the angels. Why does a Christian 
 Marquis live in such a hole?"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 4 1 
 
 Then to his horses: 
 
 "Patience, my children! Patience! In the shade 
 the flies will vanish. We shall soon be at the statue 
 of the Satyr. There it is cool!" 
 
 As we are crawling upwards, Frederick and I get 
 out and walk, a proceeding which offends our driver 
 not a little, until I manage to make him understand 
 that Englishmen are always on their feet. 
 
 Meanwhile, the sun has set, the shadows deepen, 
 the great wood thickens. Twisted branches glisten 
 like serpents' eyes, and veils of white moss stand out 
 like old men's beards. Low rocks upheave the ground, 
 black and uncertain. There is no underwood to soften 
 the eerie lines; nothing but weeds, grown rank in the 
 shade, wafting a strange narcotic perfume. But few 
 leaves strew the ground. 
 
 These ilex-woods change but little with the season. 
 They bear within their bosoms no flowers to charm 
 the eye, nor do they shelter any birds in their thick- 
 ness, nor insects on the ground. Death is in their 
 shadow — death to all that grows; so that the very 
 serpents loathe them, and the worms curl themselves 
 up and die! 
 
 The landlord's words come to me with a start. 
 Frederick remembers them likewise. If he, like my- 
 self, were not overcome by the strangeness of our 
 position, I know he would chaff me unmercifully. But, 
 for the first time in his life, I find Frederick incapable 
 of fight of any kind. 
 
 At this moment a dense cluster of impenetrable 
 ilex trunks gather in front. In other places there 
 have been breaks, rough, rocky spaces of broken 
 ground, with stunted timber, where recent cuttings
 
 42 THE RED CARDrNTAL. 
 
 had somewhat thmned the wood. But here I can 
 distinguish but a dim whiteness between the boles. 
 In spite of my reassuring words to Frederick, a feel- 
 ing of distrust is creeping over me. 
 
 "How far are we from the Villa?" I ask our 
 driver. 
 
 "Excellencies, we are close under the statue of 
 the Satiro. It is just a mile to the Villa." 
 
 "Is that the statue of the Satiro?" I ask, picking 
 my way carefully towards a large white mass which 
 looms before me. 
 
 "Precisely, Excellency. We call it the 'Satiro' for 
 short. The woods are very thick and very dark 
 hereabouts." 
 
 His voice is low, his manner embarrassed. 
 
 I would not tell Frederick for the world — I hardly 
 like to confess it to myself — but that is the statue I 
 saiv in my dreain last night, a muffled figure lying 
 under it. 
 
 Something warns me that I am entering on some 
 mysterious phase of life. The black trees — the pale 
 moonlight — the weird shadows. All are the same! 
 
 "What is the Satyr?" asks Frederick, grown very 
 grave. 
 
 "I don't know," Filippo answers, in an odd, 
 suppressed tone. Then, placing his face close to 
 mine, he whispers into my ear: "They say it is the 
 devil. The peasants have destroyed it with stones." 
 
 Cautiously advancing, I behold the outline of a 
 colossal figure, some twenty feet high, raised on a 
 lofty pedestal. It is without form, and void, save in 
 the lower extremities, where folds, as of drapery, can 
 be distinguished. The surface, indented with holes
 
 TlIE RED CARDINAL. 43 
 
 and cracks innumerable, is filled with moss and earth; 
 the trunk surmounted by what once had been a 
 head, with stony hair and horns, now flattened into a 
 hollow disk, bearing a faint resemblance to humanity; 
 eyes, nose and mouth battered into blankness by 
 volleys of stones (they lay in heaps upon the ground, 
 silent witnesses of the superstitious fury of the passers- 
 by); a satyr's legs and hoofs, faintly discernible, are 
 crumpled up under the body in a sitting posture. 
 
 A grassy circle opens in front, bordered by giant 
 trees.' Under the trees a solitary marble bench, 
 blackened by rain and time. 
 
 "She sat there," whispers Filippo, who has silently 
 followed me, pointing to the bench, "when she was 
 taken. Now, they say, another sits there, as like her 
 as self to self." 
 
 I turn round, utterly confounded. 
 "What do you mean?" I ask. I am speaking in 
 the same hushed tone. For a moment an inexpressible 
 dread possesses me. I soon shake it off, but for a few 
 instants I am literally paralysed. "Either tell me, or 
 drive on. What have you got to say?" 
 
 «Yes — what?" puts in Frederick, who has followed 
 me, pale as death. 
 
 "If your Excellencies will move on a little, I will 
 tell you what you please," says Filippo. As he speaks, 
 he contemplates the statue with dilated eyes, as if ex- 
 pecting to see it move. 
 
 "I can say nothing here," he whispers, leading the 
 way back into the road. "I feel safe beside my horses; 
 with them I care not for spirits." 
 "Spirits!" I exclaim. 
 "Spirits!" echoes Fred, backing a pace or two.
 
 44 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "Do you mean to say the ilex wood is haunted?" 
 
 At first he does not answer. Then, leading his 
 horses past the circle, where the moonlight gathers, 
 he casts a hasty look around. 
 
 "It is not good to speak of such things here" (an- 
 other searching glance), "although no one has ever 
 seen her so late as this. It is always near the Ave 
 Maria. She was taken then." 
 
 "Seen! Taken! Who was taken? Out with it, 
 man ! " 
 
 Filippo shakes his head. 
 
 "Come, come!" I continue coaxingly; my curiosity 
 has now mastered my nervousness, and I am quite 
 calm. The ludicrous aspect of our position also 
 strikes me. In the middle of a strange wood, listen- 
 ing to a ghost-story. "We will remember ^^r, whoever 
 she may be, in the huonamano" 
 
 At this rather ill-timed jest, Frederick lays his 
 hand on my shoulder, and scowls at me reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "The story and the huonamano, or no story and no 
 buofiamano." 
 
 "Gentlemen!" says Filippo loftily, "I answer for 
 nothing. It may be all true, or all false — I cannot 
 say. I will tell you what I know. Your Excellencies 
 will be liberal?" with a whine. "A poor man must 
 live." 
 
 "Yes, yes," I replied impatiently. "Go on!"
 
 TOE RED CARDINAL. 45 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "Long, long ago," begins Filippo, "these mountains 
 were all forest for hundreds and hundreds of miles. 
 Not a church, not a house, from San Martino down to 
 the sea. The lands have always belonged to the great 
 Gonzago family. 
 
 "Next before the marquis, a cardinal — Cardinal 
 Flavio — came here in his villeggiatura to visit the 
 hermitage of Sant' Agata, and took a fancy to the 
 ilex-woods, and built a fine villa, with walks and 
 gardens, all set with marble statues that overtop the 
 trees. 
 
 "A cardinal! Dominedio! Priests are all alike; 
 only this one was rich and powerful, a grand gentle- 
 man, neither young nor old> with a red face, they say, 
 and a long nose. What they did up here, chi lo sa? 
 They say that in the Thebaide, named after the 
 deserts in Egypt and the monks, there were twelve 
 chapels, one for every month in the year. 
 
 "Besides the chapels, the cardinal placed big 
 statues, carved in marble, all round the house; mostly 
 of pagans, who did not believe in God. Besides the 
 Satyr here, there is the Hercules, sixty feet high. Per 
 Bacco! You will see him in the morning, Signori, 
 and gods and goddesses, saints and sinners — dozens 
 of them. 
 
 "Why the cardinal put up the statue of the Satyr,
 
 46 TIIE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 I cannot say; nor why it should quake and groan in 
 the high winds. No one will pass after dusk where 
 its shadow falls; no grass grows — no flowers — and 
 why? I will tell." 
 
 At this moment a faint moonbeam strikes through 
 the trees, and an owl hoots out of the ilex within the 
 mystic circle, then flies away with a screech, its wings 
 flapping against the boughs. 
 
 "Down in the valley there is a torrent," he points 
 to a precipitous descent below, "dry in summer, and 
 an old bridge; also the walls of what was once a hut. 
 An old peasant lived there, called Giacomo, and wdth 
 him his little granddaughter, Gigia. She had no 
 mother, no father, no brother, no uncle — all were 
 dead. 
 
 "The grandfather was a scholar, he had been a 
 sort of secretary up at the villa. He could read and 
 write — via! like a priest, without the Latin! And he 
 taught Gigia. 
 
 "She was so small people called her the '■donnina^ 
 fair-skinned, with golden hair and blue eyes, like a 
 little Jesus. You might know her any^vhere, they say, 
 by a droop she had in one of her eyelids, also by her 
 black brows and eyelashes, which gave her a strange 
 look. She had small hands and feet, and was not 
 browned by the sun as other peasants, but white all 
 over, like cream. 
 
 "The grandfather would not let her go out when 
 it was hot, but made her sit in the terrace under the 
 sloping roof, where the maize-tops hung in bunches to 
 dry, her little fingers twisting the thread on the distaff, 
 as she sang love-songs about '■amo^ and ^adoro' and 
 ^caro,' and ^amaro' People called her the 'donnina,'
 
 ■niE RED CARDINAL. 47 
 
 because she was so small — neither woman nor girl, as 
 the folks said. 
 
 "When the shadows gathered, Gigia drove her 
 grandfather's pigs into the ilex-woods to feed on the 
 acorns. Mostly she loved to go towards the statue of 
 the Satyr — that ugly monster there, with a mouth full 
 of blacic earth and his hairy limbs curled under him. 
 
 "The stone bench in the circle of trees was her 
 favourite seat. There she would weave garlands of 
 wild flowers, singing her songs, while the pigs spread 
 themselves all about, turning over the red earth. The 
 old boar with a bell always let Gigia know where 
 they were. If they wandered too far off, Gigia sounded 
 a whistle, and the pigs came running back to her, as 
 tame as dogs. 
 
 "One afternoon, as she was sitting under the 
 shadow of the Satyr — an evil shadow, gentlemen, as 
 everybody knows — there came a sound of harness- 
 bells and wheels, and suddenly turning the corner, be- 
 fore she could run away, two carriages passed. In 
 the last, a big, painted chariot, driving very leisurely, 
 so as not to shake him, sat the Cardinal Flavio, all in 
 red, with a broad hat on his head — red too. 
 
 "The Cardinal stared hard at Gigia, standing 
 among the flowers which had fallen from her lap, and 
 Giiiia stared back at him. He made a sudden motion 
 with his hand to stop the carriage. Then, seeming to 
 think better of it, fixed his eyes on her still more 
 steadfastly, nodded and smiled, and stroked his cheek 
 Avith his fat white hand, on which were many glitter- 
 ing rings, Gigia, on her side, opening her blue eyes, 
 and putting back her hair, the better to observe him. 
 
 "The Cardinal, still smiling, leaned forward and
 
 4 8 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 spoke eagerly to his secretary, sitting opposite, a young 
 priest with a white face and a look of terror in his 
 eyes, who bowed low and said something, pointing 
 towards Giacomo's hut. 
 
 "Then, casting a strange look at Gigia, the Car- 
 dinal took from his finger a ring, with a wonderful big 
 diamond in it, and dropped it at her feet. As long 
 as he could see her, he turned his head. 
 
 "When the ilex trees closed in and hid him and 
 his red chariot, Gigia stooped down and picked up 
 the ring. She had never seen a jewel before, and this 
 lay in her hand like fire, without burning. Laughing 
 to herself, she kissed it and wondered at it. Then, 
 putting her two little fingers inside, she ran in among 
 the ilex trees — the pigs after her — to show it to her 
 grandfather, and tell him about the Cardinal. 
 
 "Old Giacomo listened in silence, and crossed 
 himself several times. When she had done he laid 
 his wrinkled hand upon her head. 
 
 "'May the blessed saints guard thee, Gigia, Avhen 
 I am gone. Don't wear the ring, child, it is unlucky. 
 Go no more to the Satyr, my child!' 
 
 "Next day Gigia went out as usual with her pigs, 
 the old boar with the bell trotting on in front. She 
 promised her grandfather to go no more to the Satyr. 
 If she kept her word, who can say? 
 
 "The sun set over the western hills towards Caje- 
 tano; the moon rose, but Gigia did not return. Gia- 
 como listened for every sound. At last he heard the 
 tinkling of a bell, and he knew it was the old boar 
 running down the hill. With the boar would come 
 Gigia. 
 
 "Not a bit! The old boar, as if he had a Christian 
 
 i
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 49 
 
 heart, stood opposite to Giacomo, and grunted violently 
 — and the other pigs grunted too. It was clear they had 
 a great deal to tell, poor beasts, if they could only 
 have spoken. They were covered with mud, and 
 panting as though they had been driven very hard, 
 and so hungry that they gnawed the boards on the 
 stair leading up to the door until the old man came 
 down and fed them. 
 
 "Though the pigs came back, Gigia never re- 
 turned. 
 
 "Next day Giacomo was like a man mad. He 
 wandered up and down the ilex-woods, calling out: 
 'Gigia! Gigia! Dotinina mia!' mostly in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the Satyr, standing there for hours, call- 
 ing on her name. Other words too, he spoke, but no 
 one cared to repeat them. He tore his hair, and 
 groaned and wept, then threw himself upon the ground. 
 The neighbours picked him up insensible, and carried 
 him home in their arms, for he was too weak to 
 walk. 
 
 "That night, as he lay in his bed, looking at the 
 moon and thinking of his little Gigia, there came to 
 him a sound that formed itself into the song that 
 Gigia used to sing, floating, as it were, out of the 
 trees from the side of the Satyr, very faint and low 
 like a moan, rising and falling with the sighing of the 
 wind. 
 
 "Giacomo sat up in bed and listened. Could 
 it be Gigia coming home at last? At that time of 
 night ! 
 
 "No — impossible! Vague and horrible presenti- 
 ments came over him. Terror at her probable fate 
 froze his very soul. While he was debating with him- 
 
 The Red Cardinal. 4
 
 50 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 self what he should do, he heard quite plauily a faint 
 knock at the door, and Gigia's voice calling to him 
 from the terrace outside: 
 
 " ' Granny ! Granny ! ' 
 
 "In an instant he was up, and opened the door. 
 There was only the moon shining brightly on the 
 terrace. But, as true as Santa Caterina will save 
 Siena by her prayers, Giacomo felt a cold little hand 
 placed on his — a hand so small and slender, he knew 
 at once it was Gigia's, and no other's, and a voice 
 said to him: 'Dear Granny!' It was Gigia's voice, 
 but he had never heard it with that tone before. 
 
 "As he stood there quite bewildered, the song 
 sounded again very low among the trees, then fainter 
 and fainter, up the hill towards the Satyr. 
 
 "Giacomo felt no fear, but he knew that he should 
 never see the child again, and that, dead or alive, she 
 had come to tell him so. 
 
 "All this was known among the peasants. 
 
 "Whether the Cardinal was told that Giacomo 
 went up and down the woods, crying for Gigia, and 
 speaking words that no one cared to repeat, or whether 
 he had reasons of his own for getting the old man 
 out of his way, who knows? That is a mystery. But 
 sure it is that Giacomo was found one morning soon 
 afterwards, lying under a tree, a dagger with a gold 
 handle (such as no peasant owned) thrust into his 
 throat. 
 
 "Where Gigia had gone, who could tell? It was 
 said by some charcoal-burners, that on the evening of 
 the day she had disappeared, they had seen two men, 
 wearing the Cardinal's livery, along with a young 
 priest, hiding among the ilex-trees at the back of the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 5 1 
 
 Satyr; that they (the charcoal-burners) heard screams, 
 and then a noise of pigs grunting and running violently, 
 as if Satan himself were after them, quite in an op- 
 posite direction from Giacomo's cottage. 
 
 "Next morning the men looked about, and saw 
 the marks of many feet in the red earth. Dead flowers 
 lay on the ground, and some threads of long yellow 
 hair were trodden into the earth. 
 
 "No one dared speak, or ask questions, for fear of 
 the Cardinal. But the peasants, when they had the 
 chance, pelted the Satyr with bits of rock and big 
 stones, until before a month was over from the time 
 Gigia disappeared, the ugly grinning monster, who 
 knew all about her, lost shape and form. It was never 
 taken down, however, and there it stands, gentlemen, 
 before you, to prove I speak the truth." 
 
 With startling rapidity Filippo raised his arm, and 
 pointed to the white outline. My eyes involuntarily 
 followed his outstretched hand. Had it grown larger 
 since I looked before? I stare in mute astonishment. 
 Just as I saw it in my dream — that blackened round 
 where the face ought to be. Surely — or do my eyes 
 deceive me? — twice as large! Heavens, too! it 
 moves ! 
 
 The very breath leaves me. I have presence of 
 mind, however, to hold my tongue. I take another 
 look. The moonlight must deceive me! No — there 
 it is again! — a movement, a swaying forwards of the 
 head, almost imperceptible, it is true, but — a motion! 
 I see a minute streak of moonlight through the trees. 
 I am sure that was not there before. When the head 
 moves, I plainly see it. Then I lose it. 
 
 If I were alone, I would at once go up to the 
 
 4*
 
 52 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 Statue and examine it thoroughly. I am not a nervous 
 man, and my curiosity is keenly excited. I am sure 
 some weird influence is gathering round me. But 
 there is Fred — one word to him, and, in his schoolboy 
 way, he is quite capable of getting frightened, and 
 setting off on foot back to Siena. 
 
 As all this flashes through my brain, I sigh. What 
 trouble awaits me? 
 
 The echo of that sigh comes back to me distinctly 
 from the statue! This time there can be no doubt 
 of it. Frederick, too, has heard it. He turns a be- 
 wildered face towards me. We stare at each other. 
 Then at Filippo. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, gentlemen," he says in a 
 mysterious voice. "The Satyr does make strange 
 noises at night. Lots of people have heard it." 
 
 I mentally decide that I will closely question the 
 Marquis about this mysterious statue. But what, in 
 the name of common sense, can induce my old friend 
 to live in a haunted ilex-wood? A recollection of 
 the Batty's — husband and wife — becomes painfully 
 vivid. 
 
 All this passes quicker than I can write. Again 
 I turn to our driver. Can he be imposing on me? 
 
 "Listen!" I say. "I will not go forward until you 
 have told me all you know." 
 
 A queer look passes over Filippo's face. I can see 
 he respects me for my acuteness. 
 
 "Genistreto of Genistrello, did say once, your Ex- 
 cellency — I mean Genistreto who lives on the hill op- 
 posite St. Agata, near the statue of the Hercules — 
 Genistreto did say something about his wife having 
 been, the day before, in the ilex- wood, leading her
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 53 
 
 lambs home about the Ave Maria, and that near the 
 Satyr, she saw Gigia " 
 
 "Saw Gigia?" exclaims Fred out loud, forgetting 
 any fear of hearing his own voice. "Why, I thought 
 that she was dead!" 
 
 "No, not dead!" answers Filippo, pressing up very 
 close, and speaking under his breath. "Assuredly she 
 was gone, and we may hope, buried; but she was seen 
 all the same. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he continues: "If I must, I must; 
 but I am white with fear. It is not well to speak of 
 such things at night, in the middle of the wood." 
 
 "Go on!" I repeat imperiously. "Make haste!" 
 
 "Yes, Excellency. It was Gigia — the donnma — 
 but oh! so changed! A pale, haggard little face, 
 with streaming eyes, that never winked, and hair 
 hanging to her heels. She waved her hand for 
 Genistreto's wife to come to her — waved her hand 
 and pointed to her mouth, as if she would speak! 
 Holy Virgin! I hope we shall not see her now! 
 Gentlemen! Is there anything about? I dare not 
 look round." 
 
 For Filippo keeps his back religiously towards the 
 statue. 
 
 "There is nothing!" I reply. 
 
 I am fain to confess I also found it convenient at 
 this moment to turn my back. Frederick was in such 
 deep shadow I could only see the outline of his figure, 
 but his breathing betrayed his excitement. 
 
 "Three times Genistreto's wife heard her name 
 called out— Orsola! Orsola! Orsola! very plainly. 
 Then, as she turned to fly, there was the sound of the
 
 54 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 fluttering of wings in the air — passing away rapidly 
 towards the south. 
 
 "One night, Ettore and Balduccio, coming from 
 Siena late after market, by this road, saw what they 
 thought was a child sitting under the trees, wringing 
 her hands. Knowing nothing about the story, they 
 stopped, and Ettore went forward, and there, sure 
 enough, sat a figure, glistening all over with jewels, in 
 a long, white robe, draggled in the mud, and turning 
 a livid little face towards them — like nothing human, 
 they said, for they both saw it plainly — beckoning to 
 them to follow it into the wood (but they were too 
 frightened). Then it glided away among the trees, 
 and was seen no more. 
 
 "These things. Excellencies, got spoken about, as 
 you may think, and Zaidee, an old, old woman, people 
 called a witch — she is dead now — laughed and 
 crowed to herself, and pointing with her thumb up to 
 the villa, muttered that *Gigia would always haunt the 
 head of the house until a life was taken for a life! 
 Then she would rest.' " 
 
 I confess that these words, vague as they were, 
 and foolish, perhaps, made a profound impression on 
 me. They pointed directly to the marquis, my friend. 
 He was the head of the house — the heir of his uncle. 
 Was he under the ban of one of those mysterious 
 prophecies which so often, spite of reason and science, 
 work out their own fulfilment? Had I been called in 
 to witness the realisation of some horrible curse? A 
 vision of the Satyr, as I had seen it in my dream — a 
 muffled figure lying at the base — rose before me. I 
 shivered to the very marrow of my bones.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 55 
 
 Then Filippo's voice came to me as from a long 
 way off, and I listen. 
 
 "A vetturino, 'Tista by name, my friend, who stands 
 his carriage alongside of mine in the Piazza at Siena, 
 drove some timber merchants here two years ago. It 
 was late when they arrived, so the steward gave them 
 all a bed and stable-room, that they might start early 
 the next morning. 
 
 '"Tista was put to sleep in a room in the old 
 factory, that stands by the chapel, on one side of the 
 villa. It is called the old factory because a new one 
 is now built, but the old one served in the time of the 
 Cardinal, and there were rooms over it for the house- 
 hold. 
 
 "Just as daylight broke, 'Tista was awoke by a 
 scream so shrill it made his flesh creep. He sat bolt 
 upright in bed, and, as I live, saw in a corner of the 
 room the figure of a girl, grey and shadowy, with hair 
 like gold hanging about her back, crouched down be- 
 fore an altar, set out white, as for a marriage. Before 
 'Tista had time to turn, the door of the room flew 
 open of itself, and the dark outline of a priest, tall 
 and stately — all in red — filled up the doorway, behind 
 him the dim forms of other figures, bearing lights. 
 
 '"Tista, the vetlurino, stopped to see no more, but 
 then and there leapt out of the window, which he had 
 left open, for it was summer, and the night was hot. 
 This, gentlemen, is as true as that Paradise is for the 
 saints. 
 
 "Now, I believe," adds Filippo, with a mysterious 
 air, "that Gigia was entrapped down here at the Satyr, 
 and murdered in the self-same room, where the Car- 
 dinal pretended to marry her, and that he still walks
 
 56 TIIE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 with the four sei-vants bearing lights as he did that 
 night; and that Gigia's soul cannot rest in peace until 
 some one belonging to the Cardinal gives his life for 
 hers. Old Zaidee said so — she knew!" 
 
 As he repeats the ominous phrase, I tremble and 
 turn cold. A weird sense of evil comes to me in the 
 very air. I feel the unseen hand of fate in the pre- 
 sence of the Satyr, so closely connected with Anzano's 
 destiny. I try to shake off the feeling, specially before 
 Fred, but I cannot.
 
 TIIE RED CARDINAL. 57 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Now we are rattling along a good road in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 The Satyr, with its ghostly memories, retires into 
 the night. Filippo whistles gaily; the smacking of his 
 whip, and the jingling of the harness-bells, sound like 
 the voices of cheerful companions. 
 
 Frederick, whose nerves, I like to think are weaker 
 than my own, and whose composure has been more 
 shaken, cannot help now and then casting furtive 
 glances behind him. All at once I see his eyes fix 
 themselves on a dense mass of foliage in front. He 
 utters a wild cry, signs to me, and points. 
 
 Flickering lights are dancing among the dark 
 leaves. 
 
 "Uncle — uncle!" he gasps, catching his breath, 
 
 Fred's grip is so tight, I call out. 
 
 "Uncle Lucius. It is coming — look out!" 
 
 Before I can answer, the lights grow larger and 
 more distinct, obliterating the leaves. A murmur of 
 voices is wafted towards us. Filippo stops. He, too, 
 listens, and looks anxiously ahead, 
 
 "Bravo!" he cries at last, after a pause, "Bravo! 
 Cara Madorma! They are come at last. They have 
 taken their time, these Excellencies!" 
 
 "Hola!" he shouts, at the top of his voice. "Hola! 
 Who goes?"
 
 58 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "Friends," is the answer from voices coming from 
 the lights, which I now perceive to be torches, carried 
 by tall men, who, as they pass along, illuminate the 
 inmost recesses of the woods, until the ilex trunks 
 stand out like the dark pillars of a temple. 
 
 "Friends! Friends!" cries Filippo, cracking his 
 w'hip. "■Evviva! How sweet are these voices in this 
 desolate place!" 
 
 By a rapid movement of his arm, I know that 
 Filippo has crossed himself. He would have denied 
 it, but I know he did. Fred breaks into a nervous 
 laugh. 
 
 In another moment our carriage is surrounded by 
 tall figures, armed with torches. The sudden blaze 
 dazzles and blinds me. I can make out the dark 
 figure of a man, muffled in a cloak, standing out from 
 the rest, who fall back respectfully as he approaches 
 the carriage, on the side where I am seated. A hand 
 is stretched out. 
 
 "Welcome, a thousand times welcome, my dear 
 Lucius!" says a penetrating voice, in Avhich the old 
 music still lingers. 
 
 "I have been very uneasy about you," the deep 
 voice goes on to say. "I feared you had met with 
 some accident." 
 
 In a moment, grasping the thin bony hand ex- 
 tended to me, I am out of the carriage and standing 
 beside the Marquis (for it is he) on the road. Frederick 
 follows me. Still holding my hand, Gonzaga draws 
 me towards him and kisses me on both cheeks. As 
 he does so I glance upwards, and see a pale, haggard 
 countenance, shaded by a broad felt hat, in which I
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 59 
 
 vainly seek for the recognition which came to me with 
 the sound of his voice. 
 
 "My dear Marquis, how glad I am to see you once 
 more!" I wring his hand as I speak. 
 
 "Once more! You may well say that, Lucius, 
 after so many years." 
 
 "Well, I have no excuse! I feel, however, that I 
 am forgiven, for you have come to meet me. Allow 
 me to present my nephew, Frederick Stanley. I trust 
 that your friendship for me may descend to him." 
 
 The Marquis responds by a dignified salute; raises 
 his hat and extends his hand to Frederick. This 
 gives me time to observe my old friend. I should 
 certainly not have known him. I forget the alteration 
 in myself, to gaze amazed at him. His raven hair, 
 once the object of my intensest envy— (I am myself 
 what is called sandy) — streaming back from his brow 
 like a natural diadem — is now thin and sprinkled 
 with grey; his forehead is bald and prematurely 
 wrinkled; his clear olive complexion — the very per- 
 fection of a healthful paleness — turned sallow, and his 
 whole face, as I recall it, beaming and responsive to 
 my own, clouded and worn. His well-defined eye- 
 brows alone, have not, like his hair, changed colour 
 or diminished; but full and dark as ever, become, in 
 the general alteration of the features, an anomaly; 
 producing an unpleasant effect, increased by the 
 hollow cavities round the deep-set eyes. 
 
 Yet, altogether, this rigid countenance is noble. If 
 it bears the marks of suffering — it is suffering borne 
 with dignity. Nobler perhaps than the beaming face 
 I remember, flushed with the trivialities of youth, and 
 shifting with the play of every passing emotion —
 
 6o TIIE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 nobler and more intellectual; and that look of gravity 
 becomes it well. 
 
 "My brother, Sigismund," says the Marquis, as a 
 towering form steps forward out of the gloom. 
 
 Sigismund is much younger than Anzano, and 
 somewhat lighter complexioned, knit altogether in a 
 more manly frame. 
 
 I did not at once, in the uncertain light, appreciate 
 the full effect of the almost faultless beauty of his 
 chiselled features; his dark, lustrous eyes; the haughty 
 carriage of his superb head and marble-like throat; 
 his well-cut mouth, characteristically haughty, but with 
 yielding lines about the lips and chin, readily gliding 
 into as fascinating a smile as ever lit up the face of 
 man. 
 
 But I did note the natural stateliness of manner, 
 into which neither pride nor presumption entered, 
 which struck me at once as the very perfection of 
 manhood — just what my dear friend ought to have 
 possessed, had he fulfilled the promise of his early 
 youth. 
 
 Upon the appearance of the Marquis Sigismund 
 upon the scene, mutual salutations were again ex- 
 changed and hats lifted. 
 
 Once more I had to present Frederick, literally 
 drawing him forth from the shadows into which he 
 had retreated. 
 
 While the introductions were taking place, the 
 torch-bearers, sturdy, sun-tanned, shaggy-haired fellows 
 — very scanty as to raiment, with large, bead-like eyes 
 — turned wide open on us as if strangers from another 
 planet, formed themselves into an illuminated circle, 
 within the centre of which we stand.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 6 1 
 
 I observe that Filippo has already fraternized with 
 them, and is Hghting a cigar at one of their torches. 
 
 While we are talking, the smoke forms a lurid 
 canopy over our heads; again the earth turns of a 
 bloody hue; again the over-arching trees rustle with a 
 moan, and the desolate cry of a night-bird roused 
 from its roost comes to me, as the palpable voice of 
 the language of this strange wood. 
 
 Involuntarily I shiver. 
 
 "Come, Lucius," says the Marquis, whose eyes 
 have, even in this brief interval, wandered off absently 
 among the trees, but now settle themselves in an 
 earnest gaze on me; "you are cold; the damp of the 
 night air among these ilex-trees is unhealthy. We are 
 still some way from the villa, a quick walk up the hill 
 will stimulate your blood." 
 
 He passes his arm familiarly through mine, and 
 we pass out of the blood-red circle of the torch-light, 
 into the pale track of the moonbeams scantily streak- 
 ing the road, beside which the ilex-trees rise up like 
 mis-shapen giants. 
 
 "I hope you do not feel ill," Gonzago added, 
 breaking an awkward silence. 
 
 (God knows it was not want of matter which kept 
 me silent. A whirl of thoughts, past and present, be- 
 wildered my brain.) 
 
 "No, not ill, but greatly excited and fatigued. It 
 is a fearful road. We have been for some hours in 
 the dark woods." 
 
 "Hours!" and he caught up my words impatiently, 
 almost as if displeased. "How so? You ought to 
 have passed through in less than one hour at furthest. 
 What has delayed you?"
 
 6i THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 His sudden curiosity alarmed me. I seemed to be 
 in possession of a guilty secret. Down at the Satyr I 
 had decided to question him as to the truth of 
 Filippo's story. Now, I could say nothing. 
 
 "The horses were tired," I answered, hesitating. 
 "We had to wait to rest them. Not knowing the way, 
 I could not venture on alone." 
 
 This explanation seemed to satisfy him. 
 
 "I am really relieved that nothing has occurred," 
 he observes, returning to the subject persistently. 
 
 "What did you expect to happen?" I ask, my 
 voice involuntarily sinking almost to a whisper. Why 
 I say this I know not. I suppose I cannot dispel some 
 outward evidence of the sinister impression made upon 
 me by the mysterious statue. Before the words are 
 out of my mouth I am aware I have made a mistake. 
 My friend's face darkened, and, from his deep-set eyes 
 he cast a strangely suspicious glance. 
 
 "Happen!" with a forced laugh. "Happen! Why 
 should anything special happen? I alluded to the 
 ordinary accidents of a mountain road, rocky ground 
 and a dark night. You must have started too late 
 from Siena. It was my earnest desire" (he emphasised 
 these words with what appeared a needless vehemence) 
 "that you should have arrived here by daylight." 
 
 "Daylight or moonlight — what matter? I was 
 coming to you, Anzano! That was enough for me." 
 
 My words turn the current of the conversation, 
 which had been painfully drifting into an unmerited 
 reproach. Now he linked his arm closer in mine, and 
 turned towards me. 
 
 "Thank God yotc are not changed, Lucius," he 
 murmured, with a deep sigh.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 63 
 
 That sigh, and a certain melancholy intonation, 
 implies that all else has changed. He fell into a 
 muse, then, rousing himself: 
 
 "Be frank with me, Lucius. You met with no 
 adventure in the wood? Nothing unusual? You are 
 so very late, remember — so much after the time." 
 
 His questions are asked hurriedly; again he fixes 
 his deep-set eyes on me, as if to read my very soul. 
 Is it an intense anxiety to know whether anything un- 
 usual has occurred, or has he forgotten what he has 
 already said? In either case, what shall I answer? I 
 cannot begin my visit with the confession, that a 
 ghastly relation connected with his uncle, the Cardinal, 
 has been disclosed to me. The only course open to 
 me is to ignore Filippo's story altogether. Am I wrong 
 in this? I have no time to consider. 
 
 "An adventure, my dear Anzano! What makes 
 you think so?" (At this I feel his arm wince.) "No- 
 thing of the kind. Only a garrulous driver and bad 
 horses." 
 
 I try to laugh. How can I or anyone else laugh, 
 among these awful trees, crowding round like dusky 
 listeners? My very voice seems to be transformed into 
 a strange sound. 
 
 We are now walking fast, the rapidity of my 
 friend's pace exceeding my own. In an agitated voice 
 he exclaims: 
 
 "Garrulous driver! Wretch! I should like to shoot 
 those chattering apes from Siena. What did the 
 driver say? I beg of you to tell me. Repeat every 
 word, Lucius, I implore you." 
 
 He speaks imperiously, as if impelled by an ir-
 
 64 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 resistible impulse. An instant afterwards, lie adds 
 quickly: 
 
 "I beg your pardon. Don't mind me. I would 
 not for the world trouble you about the fellow." 
 
 This sudden change — a protest against his own 
 question — this apprehension lest I shall satisfy his 
 own desire; his evident preoccupation — for his eyes 
 are continually roving round in an abstracted stare — 
 appear to me most extraordinary. 
 
 All that I had heard at the hotel at Siena of his 
 eccentricity was far, very far, from reaching the truth. 
 Ever since we met I have been passing from wonder 
 to amazement, from amazement to sorrow. My poor 
 friend! What ails him? 
 
 Conscious, I suppose, in some degree, of the pain- 
 ful impression he is creating in me, he adds, as if 
 apologetically, at the same time moderating the ex- 
 treme rapidity of his pace: 
 
 "You cannot think, Lucius, what devils the Sienese 
 are. How their curiosity torments me! A city of 
 liars! That is why I never go there. Liars! All liars 
 to the core. They pass their lives in slandering me. 
 No wonder! They would slander the mother who 
 bore them. Never let them address you, Lucius. But 
 you are a stranger. I daresay you listened to the 
 fellow? Perhaps you questioned him. If so, tell me 
 frankly." 
 
 I feel an inward pang. Perhaps his overwrought 
 sensibility noted it. 
 
 "Is it so? Was it about the woods — the statues? 
 Probably the Satyr?" (Here his voice quivers.) "You 
 passed the Satyr. People don't like it at night. Was 
 it about the Satyr?"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 65 
 
 A deep glow comes into his eyes. I feel forced 
 to dissemble. 
 
 "Not I," I reply, being determined to give him no 
 present clue until I am enabled to judge what founda- 
 tion exists for the story. Later it will, I hope, be pos- 
 sible to relate to him all, and to learn from himself 
 how much of actual truth there is in the statement. 
 
 Hitherto the Marquis had been so entirely ab- 
 sorbed by his desire to know Avhat revelations had 
 taken place in the wood, that he had no time to make 
 any allusion to the past. Certainly this was not the 
 kind of welcome I had expected. I feel hurt and 
 chagrined. A somewhat sulky silence on my part 
 followed. 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear Lucius, if I appear pre- 
 occupied" — he had evidently guessed my feelings, 
 which, after all, were only natural — "pardon me and 
 bear with me. You do not know me now. Am I not 
 greatly changed?" 
 
 "Why, yes, you are changed," I answer; "but not 
 more, I daresay, than I appear to you, since the days 
 we sat by the river at Stitchome's." 
 
 "But we parted at Stonyhurst," he puts in, sharply. 
 "Do not confuse me; I am changed in mind as well 
 as in body. We have not been ten minutes together, 
 Lucius, yet I can assure myself that it is only your 
 outward man that is altered; your mind is still fresh. 
 You are as warm-hearted and affectionate as ever. 
 While I" — he pauses and sighs profoundly — "I am a 
 mere wreck. Dead to all feeling — tortured — distressed 
 — harassed, with faith in nothing, least of all in 
 myself." 
 
 The Red Cardinal, 5
 
 66 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "Have you lost your faith in me, Anzano?" 
 
 "No, no — not in you! that faith still remains as 
 vividly as if we had only parted yesterday. How many 
 years is it?" he asks abruptly. 
 
 "Five-and-twenty last June/' I answer. "I have 
 always kept, carefully noted in my tablets, the day of 
 our first meeting at Stitchome's, and our parting at 
 Stonyhurst. What tears we shed! We were to write 
 to each other every week!" 
 
 "It is true!" he exclaims, "yet we never ex- 
 changed a line. How ill these boyish promises are 
 kept. My tears were not soon dried, however. I was 
 desolate without you. I never made another friend. 
 I swear that through all the vicissitudes of my life — 
 and I have been so fearfully tried — that my attach- 
 ment to you has never varied. To me you were 
 always my hero — my Achilles! — Achilles, who loved 
 and protected his poor Patroclus. When that red- 
 haired bully at school (I quite forget his name — then 
 it was written in fire on my brain — I wanted to stab 
 him!) struck me down and kicked me in the play- 
 ground; how you hit him, though he was as big again 
 as you! Both his eyes were blackened and his face 
 a jelly. You were merciless — you fought like a Trojan! 
 How it all comes back to me! I have forgotten no- 
 thing." 
 
 "Not forgotten your Greek, either," I observe. "I 
 judge so by your classic allusion. Do you still be- 
 lieve in the decrees of an avenging fate? How about 
 Nemesis and the black -haired Erinnys? Do you 
 fancy yourself still under a curse? An CEdipus or an 
 Orestes?"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 67 
 
 At these unhappy words the Marquis started back, 
 as if the earth had opened before him, and a sigh so 
 profound — it was more like a groan — broke from him. 
 
 "Hush, hush, Lucius! I implore you!" in whis- 
 pered tones — "The awful decrees of fate are no sub- 
 ject for idle jesting." 
 
 "I did not jest," I hasten to reply, greatly annoyed 
 at having pained him. "I only recalled what you 
 must well remember." 
 
 "I dare not play with life now," is his answer. 
 "Mine has been too tragic." 
 
 Here is cause for fresh wonder: "Tragic!" What 
 does he mean? Always some new mystery. 
 
 "Let us talk of yourself," he continued, as if de- 
 siring to plunge into a fresh subject. "From time to 
 time, I heard of you, Lucius, travelling in Italy. But, 
 as you never proposed a meeting, I concluded you 
 had ceased to care for your old friend — after the lapse 
 of so many years. What could be more natural? I 
 had so little pleasant to offer. However, when, a week 
 ago, your letter arrived, proposing to visit me, I felt 
 happy! Yes, / — ^Anzano Gonzago — felt happy!" 
 
 A bitter laugh followed these words, as if in 
 mockery of himself 
 
 "I thanked God that at least one faithful friend 
 remained to me." His face brightens as he says this. 
 
 "You cannot feel greater happiness than I do, 
 dear Anzano," I reply, wringing his hand. 
 
 "Speak that name again, Lucius!" he exclaims 
 passionately — "Anzano! No one has called me An- 
 zano for years. When last I heard that name, it was 
 uttered by a voice I loved — a voice that breathed 
 
 5*
 
 68 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 peace into my troubled soul. Now it is mute in death. 
 Had she lived, Lucius, all might have been well." 
 
 Again he sighs. The light wind ruffling the ilex- 
 leaves, catches up the sound and repeats it — bearing 
 it far into the woods — with strange distinctness. 
 
 We both stop involuntarily. My friend slowly 
 turns his head and gazes into the trees, as if dreading 
 — yet expecting something upon which his eyes may 
 rest. 
 
 Infected with the same nervous dread, I also turn. 
 I see only Sigismund and Frederick walking side by 
 side, their figures in shadow, backed by the blazing 
 torches. As they move, lurid circles follow them — 
 turning the speckled mosses on the ilex-trees into the 
 semblance of gigantic monsters coiling round the 
 trunks. 
 
 A word now and then dropped from Frederick in 
 answer to Sigismund, whose voice, deep and pene- 
 trating like his brother's, comes to me more dis- 
 tinctly. 
 
 "You regret, then, having come to Italy for your 
 vacation, Mr. Stanley?" 
 
 "Yes," Frederick answers, in execrable Italian (he 
 understands the language, but speaks it badly). "I 
 feel such an unutterable muff at being able to say 
 nothing. Wear out my hat, you know, bowing to 
 fellows." 
 
 Sigismund laughs. 
 
 "Oh, don't laugh, or you will extinguish me. I am 
 going to Oxford next term, and shall study modern 
 languages. My uncle — a good old fellow, but crotchety 
 — ivill send me to Oxford. I chose the army."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 69 
 
 I am somewhat taken aback by the terms in which 
 my nephew alludes to me. However, if he only has 
 the sense to keep silence about Filippo and the 
 "donnina," Avhat matter? 
 
 The first moment I am alone with him I will warn 
 him to be absolutely silent.
 
 yO THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Now the Marquis is speaking. 
 
 "It is a poor welcome, Lucius, to entertain you 
 with the sorrows of my life; but I have nothing else 
 to tell. I grow more and more of a recluse. Now I 
 never leave Sant' Agata. And you? — you live in your 
 own home? You have never married?" 
 
 "Not I. I never could make up my mind whom 
 to choose. Women are all so charming. I admire 
 the sex immensely, but e7i viasse. It seems to me 
 invidious to particularise." 
 
 "Oh, Lucius! Still taking life as merrily as of 
 old. Would that I could do so. Perhaps if you had 
 protected me by "/^ Box," as you did at school, I 
 might have done better. I was born to a heritage of 
 sorrow. A time came when this was revealed to me." 
 
 "You have had, then, another grief, besides the 
 death of the lady you loved?" 
 
 My question, though growing naturally out of his 
 own remarks, appeared to embarrass him. 
 
 "Crises occur in all lives," he replies, with a sud- 
 den reserve. "My life must not be judged by that of 
 others. I am here to fulfil a purpose. A certain time 
 is needed to comprehend this. Exceptional responsi- 
 bilities have been thrown upon me," 
 
 "Well, Anzano, at any rate, with the responsi- 
 bilities, you have succeeded to the inheritance. I
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 7 I 
 
 hear you are one of the wealthiest men in Northern 
 Italy. How little you seem to appreciate your 
 blessings." 
 
 "Oh, you speak of the blessings of mere riches. 
 But if these rob you of your peace of mind, is it not 
 much better to be poor? Take from me all I have 
 and give me peace, Lucius — give me peace," he adds 
 dreamily, fixing his eyes vaguely into the night. 
 
 With an obvious effort he recalled himself, and 
 continues : 
 
 "The loss of the woman I loved was a great 
 sorrow. She died within a week of the day fixed for 
 our marriage." 
 
 Almost involuntarily I utter a sympathetic sigh. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "a terrible mystery was con- 
 nected with her death." 
 
 "Tell me what you can. I am profoundly interested." 
 
 "Yes; Avhat I can." 
 
 It is just that. I was convinced that he was try- 
 ing to avoid what Filippo had revealed as the real 
 mystery of his life. 
 
 "The name of my affianced bride was Gemma, 
 the youngest daughter of an ancient Sienese family. 
 I will not describe her; it would be too painful. Ask 
 me to show you her miniature some day. Events I 
 can relate, personal details seem to me irrelevant. 
 
 "At that time Gemma was living at her father's 
 estate of Rosea, midway between Sant' Agata and 
 Siena. A week before I was to call her mine, a girl, 
 a stranger begged to be permitted to speak to her 
 alone. The pretext was charity, some tale of mis- 
 fortune to be confided to her ear. Gemma was an 
 angel to the distressed.
 
 72 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "No one specially noted the stranger's appearance. 
 The servant who admitted her, only remembered after- 
 wards, that she was slight in stature; and that, under 
 the folds of a thick black veil, a quantity of fair hair 
 fell about her neck. 
 
 "So long an interval elapsed after she was ad- 
 mitted, the servant knocked at the door. No answer 
 was given. She opened it. Gemma was leaning back 
 in her chair dead. Purple marks like the impress of 
 small fingers were on her throat. With her own hands 
 the stranger had strangled her." 
 
 "How horrible! Was there no investigation?" 
 
 "Investigation?" He catches up my words bitterly, 
 and gives a laugh — so bitter it shocks me. 'What 
 investigation was possible when there was no evidence? 
 Lucius," and his voice sinks into a whisper, "there is 
 one who answers to the description of the murderess — 
 I know her but too well — a prescience — a horrible 
 prescience points to her, and her only. Yes, yes," 
 he continues, as though speaking to himself, "I 
 brought this fate on my poor Gemma. The evil 
 destiny which haunts me clung to her. All that I 
 have ever attempted ends with a catastrophe!" 
 
 "Nonsense! How could you, my dear friend, be 
 answerable for a death so mysterious — aneurism of the 
 heart, a fit — any sudden malady might have caused 
 it. Without an inquest, which, I presume, was not 
 permitted, no one could venture on an opinion." 
 
 Again there is that low laugh, as if in mockery of 
 himself; again his deep-set eyes wander off with a 
 stricken gaze into the darkness, then turn themselves 
 with a pathetic intensity on me. (What I say seems 
 rather to irritate than to console him.)
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 73 
 
 "A great sorrow weaned me from the world. Then 
 a fatal knowledge — my uncle the Cardinal" — at this 
 name a nervous quiver runs through my frame. He 
 relapses into silence. Whatever revelation he is about 
 to make concerning the Cardinal, dies upon his lips. 
 
 If I did not feel a guilty consciousness of having 
 unfairly come to the knowledge of the crime the Car- 
 dinal committed, I should certainly, even at the risk 
 of offending him, have insisted on an explanation. 
 But that consciousness, and the almost stern repulse 
 v/ith which all my inquiries are met, effectually 
 silences me. 
 
 After this we fall into an awkward pause, broken 
 only by the sound of our own footsteps, and the hum 
 of voices in the rear. The wheels of Filippo's carriage 
 also creak faintly. My friend's mysterious allusions 
 agitate and alarm me. A glassy stare that habitually 
 comes into his eyes entirely changes the character of 
 his face, and gives it a sinister expression. Hardly a 
 phrase falls from his lips that has not some hidden 
 meaning. His manner is so strange it is impossible 
 to feel at ease in his company. 
 
 The stifling closeness of the wood, the oppressive 
 gloom of the trees, the total absence of that inter- 
 change of thought that I had so ardently anticipated, 
 added to bodily fatigue, at last quite overcame me. 
 
 "Is this road never going to end?" I ask impa- 
 tiently. "You spoke of a hill — where is it? We have 
 all this time been walking on the same terraced road 
 which began at the statue of the Satyr." 
 
 "The Satyr!" he cries. "Then it was pointed out 
 to you? What do you know about the Satyr?"
 
 74 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 All my friend's former suspicions are again aroused. 
 I feel in no mood to indulge them. 
 
 "Do you think, Marquis, we did not use our eyes? 
 If you don't want people to notice the Satyr, you 
 should knock it down." 
 
 My rough reply rouses him. 
 
 "Bear up a little," he says. "We are not far from 
 the villa. You will soon see the avenue of statues." 
 He speaks with the utmost courtesy. "I fear you are 
 much fatigued, Lucius. I ought not to have allowed 
 you to walk. Your dinner will certainly be cold. 
 But you are changed indeed if you mind such trifles." 
 
 "Not I. My nephew is much more interested in 
 it than I. The rising generation is very epicurean." 
 
 "Your nephew, Mr. Stanley? I hope he and my 
 brother, Sigismund, will be friends." 
 
 (I do not like to say how little chance I see of 
 this happy result.) Frederick's boyish pride and shy- 
 ness are so great, they would only yield to a friendly 
 siege partaking so much of the nature of an assault, 
 that I can hardly imagine the stately Sigismund taking 
 the trouble to attempt it. 
 
 "You really must overlook the unfitness of the 
 place, Lucius. I have lived here so long alone, that 
 I have got accustomed to it. Now it strikes me all at 
 once I ought to have received you in Siena." 
 
 "Your palace there is splendid. I admired it from 
 the Piazza." 
 
 "An old barrack," he answers, "with some pic- 
 tures and artistic collections. But I do not care for 
 these things now. God and nature alone occupy my 
 mind. Of man I have had too much! Here the 
 past obliterates the present. Under the shadow of
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 75 
 
 immemorial woods the world recedes. Forms — 
 visions " 
 
 Again he casts a hasty glance around. 
 
 "No, no, Anzano," I answer, "not visions. These 
 are fancies bred of solitude. What does your hand- 
 some brother say to your vapours?" 
 
 He shakes his head and frowns; my light tone 
 evidently displeases him. 
 
 "Sigismund dislikes Sant' Agata. Like you, he 
 says it encourages my natural melancholy. Heaven 
 be praised, Sigismund speaks in ignorance. Melan- 
 choly! "Why not? What have I to make me joyful? 
 The advance of life is full of sadness — a chronicle of 
 crime," he adds, lowering his voice. "AVhole families 
 — circles of friends — die out; shadows fill their places. 
 The world becomes haunted by memories. A little 
 space, and the busy brain that reasons will be food 
 for worms also. And then? And then? The sacri- 
 fice will be accomplished!"
 
 7 6 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 At last our feet touch the rising ground. We 
 draw breath audibly up a steep ascent. Already a 
 freer air fans my brow. I can see the stars overhead, 
 shining in the purple vault of heaven; the moon rising 
 behind walls overtopped by gigantic clipped hedges. 
 In the broad road on which we are v»-alking I can 
 discern an avenue of statues niched within their green 
 recesses— statues so high that, in the half light, they 
 grow quite dim about the head and shoulders. 
 
 Before us is the Villa. In front, lofty iron gates, 
 attached to a delicately-sculptured balustrade, breast 
 high, enclose a forecourt, or garden. Within, more 
 white statues, also vases and fountains, placed sym- 
 metrically, the water shooting up in thin columns, to 
 fall back in sprays of silvery refulgence under the 
 moon. 
 
 ^ I can see the outline of palm and orange trees, 
 spiky aloes and luxuriant pampas grass, the feathery 
 fronds delicate and glittering. 
 
 From this garden, lying so softly poetic in the 
 moonlight, a broad flight of steps leads to a colon- 
 nade or portico, extending along the entire front of 
 the house, and on either side, but detached from it, 
 spacious wings, which, with the iron gates and 
 carved balustrade, constitute the four sides of a fore- 
 court.
 
 Tlffi RED CARDINAL. 77 
 
 "There Is my house, Lucius," says the Marquis, 
 halting just within the gates; "my house, which is 
 now your own." 
 
 Could a welcome be more touching? I press his 
 hand; I cannot speak; something rises in my throat 
 which stops me; tears moisten my eyes. Before his 
 house stands my friend, with his grave, care-worn face, 
 master, not only here, but of many other houses, and 
 of boundless acres, as helpless, as it seems to me, and 
 dependent, as a child. 
 
 Without being able to define what moves me, his 
 wan look and weary attitude raise my infinite compas- 
 sion. I experience the same feeling as at Stitchome's, 
 when the big Irish bully tried to kick him, and I 
 instantly pommelled the wretch to the bone, then 
 walked triumphantly round the play-ground, my arm 
 on "Saunders'" shoulder. Boyhood has gone, youth 
 has followed, now middle-age has settled on us both, 
 our hair is whitening for the harvest of eternity; but 
 his love for me, and my love for him, is still as vivid 
 as in those early days, when we both revelled in the 
 vague delusions of untried life. 
 
 Alas! for the awakening! 
 
 Now and then real bursts of natural feeling make 
 amends to me for much that is painful and depressing 
 about him — bursts bringing refreshing glimpses of the 
 youth I loved so well. To the other man, known as 
 the Marquis Gonzago — impenetrable, suspicious, do- 
 minated by some weird agencies, that contract all 
 natural expansion into what seems a tyranny of secret 
 dread — I feel a stranger. 
 
 Had I been aware how much he was changed, 
 should I have come? I think not. But, being here,
 
 78 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 I shall endeavour to forget his strangeness, and the 
 strangeness of his environments. 
 
 Does he want help — and it seems to me that of 
 all men he needs it most grievously — I will give it. 
 Let me only discover the direction in which I can aid 
 him, and all I can do would be too little. I swear it! 
 After this mental oath I feel calmer. 
 
 To whom else could he turn? To Sigismund? 
 Sigismund is much younger. Of another type, with 
 other sympathies and other views, Sigismund, even as 
 I have briefly seen him, lives in another world. No 
 special sympathy seems to unite the brothers; and 
 from some chance words my friend let drop, it appears 
 to me he desires altogether to exclude him from the 
 fatal spell under which he considers himself to have 
 fallen. 
 
 Does he divine my thoughts? The flush upon his 
 pale face, the warm pressure of his thin hand and 
 the glances of deep affection he casts upon me, as we 
 stand, linked arm-in-arm, reveal to me that he does. 
 
 The sound of approaching footsteps, and the mur- 
 mur of voices , rudely break the spell. Not only does 
 our mood change, but all the aspect of nature changes 
 Avith it. The pallid moonbeams vanish before the 
 lurid glare of the torches, flashing fiercely on path 
 and statue — mounting upward even to the roof, and 
 dashing the fountains as with sparks of flame. 
 
 Frederick now comes up with Sigismund. Both 
 are smoking. 
 
 "That house don't fetch me at all. Uncle Lucius. 
 I'll take my oath it's haunted like that beastly wood," 
 whispers Frederick into my ear. 
 
 "Foolish boy," I reply under my breath. "Think
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 7Q 
 
 what you like, but, for Heaven's sake hold your 
 tongue," 
 
 Frederick shrinks back astounded at my unusual 
 sternness; he only knows me as a good-natured, con- 
 venient old uncle. But I can be hasty when I am 
 provoked. Take exceeding care, Master Fred. I can 
 tell you you are on ticklish ground. 
 
 "Luigi." The Marquis is addressing one of the 
 torch-bearers. "Go and light up the great hall, and 
 order supper to be served immediately." 
 
 As Luigi and the other torch-bearers fall apart to 
 obey this order, our dusty carriage and the tired little 
 horses, with heads and tails depressed, Filippo en- 
 throned on the box — are disclosed to view. In an 
 instant Filippo has leapt to the ground, dashed away 
 his pipe and posed himself, hat in hand, in an ap- 
 propriate attitude. 
 
 "Most illustrious Marquis " he begins. 
 
 "Take that fellow away to the steward's house," 
 cries my friend angrily, turning quickly on his heel: 
 "On no account allow him to enter the house." 
 Poor Filippo! The last I see of him is an ap- 
 pealing glance of mingled rage and mortification , ad- 
 dressed to me, as he rams down his hat defiantly on 
 his head. 
 
 "What an exquisite night!" the Marquis remarks, 
 as if awakened to a sudden consciousness of the ne- 
 cessity of speech. "The air is full of perfume. You 
 have nothing like this in England, Lucius. Your sickly 
 moon is always in a haze, and your everlasting fogs 
 envelope everything." 
 
 We are standing on the central gravel path con- 
 ducting to the portico, under a shadowy roof of tropi- 
 
 \
 
 8o THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 cal foliage, the moon over us, the centre of an expanse 
 of silvery radiance, and a few stars, dimmed by her 
 lustre, gathering on the dark fringe of the mountain 
 horizon. 
 
 Luigi and the others are rushing hither and 
 thither within the house. Their blazing torches dis- 
 playing in fiery patterns, every delicate curve and 
 minute detail of the external colonnade; and from the 
 colonnade itself the reflex of the flames dashed up- 
 wards, wakening every window-pane into a vivid 
 splendour. 
 
 Little by little, the illumination grows fainter and 
 fainter, dying away at last altogether, as the last man 
 disappears. Then the silver moon resumes her sway, 
 bathing every object in the whiteness of her rays. 
 
 "A pretty eff"ect!" Sigismund remarks, as he stands 
 watching these alterations of light, the moonbeams 
 framing his majestic figure as in a mystic background 
 — the living image, as I think, of the fairy prince. 
 
 "These improvised scenes are always the most 
 happy. If one had tried to produce that effect of 
 changing lights, it would certainly have been a 
 failure." 
 
 As he spoke, I see that Sigismund's eyes are 
 earnestly fixed on a particular window in the upper 
 story, just over one of the balls of a huge stone 
 coronet, forming the central decoration of the richly 
 sculptured fagade. 
 
 The Marquis, who had turned to listen to his 
 brother's remark, also detects the direction of his eyes, 
 and his eyebrows contract into a spasm of sudden 
 pain. Then, with a movement, passionate in its abrupt- 
 ness, he turns away, and draws me under the shadow
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 8 1 
 
 of the tufted shrubs. I think he is about to com- 
 municate to me the cause of his sudden displeasure; 
 but minutes pass by, and he continues in the same 
 attitude, frowning and gazing vacantly into my face. 
 At last the frown dies away, and the same helpless, 
 pleading expression comes into his eyes, that before, 
 in the wood, touched me so deeply. 
 
 "Your house is really magnificent, Anzano," I say 
 at last, not wishing to appear to notice this silent 
 episode between the brothers, and the distress it has 
 evidently caused him. "I do not know what blemishes 
 daylight may reveal; but, in the moonlight, it has the 
 air of an enchanted palace. So immense too! You 
 must need a whole retinue of servants." 
 
 "Ah!" he replies, speaking more naturally. "Ser- 
 vants! — that would not be much. But you forget that 
 in this solitary place, so far from other habitations, we 
 have also to lodge and feed a whole tribe of outside 
 dependants, shepherds, game-keepers, poultry-men, 
 gardeners, peasants, grooms and helpers; also the 
 land-steward and his family, who have their own 
 rooms in the new factory, to the right, forming one 
 side of the square. Servants there are too, inside, at 
 least a score, and many aged pensioners, a burden 
 entailed by possession. Sant' Agata is a little territory 
 of itself. Nor is the next world forgotten," he adds, 
 trying to call up a feeble smile. "That is our chapel," 
 pointing to the left, as we stand with our backs turned 
 to the house, towards a Grecian-fronted facade, with a 
 sculptured doorway, standing close to the main 
 building. 
 
 " — Only opened on great occasions or when Don 
 Antonio comes up from San Martino to say mass for 
 
 T/ie Red Cardinal.
 
 BZ THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 US on f est as. Soon, however, I hope the doors will 
 unclose for a propitious ceremony, such as rarely 
 takes place in our family." 
 
 "What, a marriage?" 1 ask eagerly. My friend 
 silently indicates Sigismund, just visible through the 
 orange leaves, standing exactly on the same spot; his 
 back towards us, his head raised to a light, shining 
 through the outer shutters of the same window in the 
 upper story. 
 
 Sigismund is either too much engrossed to hear 
 my question, or affects to be. At this moment the 
 light disappears; and with an uneasy start, as of a 
 man recalled suddenly to himself, he crosses the gar- 
 den, and disappears into the house. 
 
 As the Marquis watches his movements, he shakes 
 his head mournfully. It is clear that something is 
 amiss between the brothers. Sigismund is perfectly 
 courteous in his manner to his elder; while the Mar- 
 quis, on his side, pointedly refers to him on every 
 possible occasion, yet I observe that his absence evi- 
 dently relieves him, and that he then speaks with 
 greater freedom. 
 
 "What is that ugly low building with an over- 
 hanging roof," I ask, "between the chapel and the 
 marble balustrade? It seems out of place there. You 
 should pull it down." 
 
 Pale as my friend habitually is, the moonlight 
 shows him to me, at this instant, almost deathlike. 
 
 He draws a long breath — then presses one of his 
 hands over his eyes, as if to shut out some distressful 
 
 image. 
 
 "That house is the old factory," he replies, trying
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 83 
 
 to render his voice steady, and succeeding but ill. 
 "It is shut up now; we have no further use for it." 
 
 Breathlessly I fix my eyes upon it, Filippo's words 
 about the apparition seen by 'Tista rushing into my 
 mind. I long to ask the Marquis why it is shut up, 
 and what really took place there — if the story of the 
 murder is an invention, or only some accident giving 
 a semblance of truth to a hideous fiction? After what 
 passed in the ilex-wood, I dare not — I can only gaze 
 in silence at the heavy shadow of the overlapping 
 roof, deepened into an ominous blackness; a single 
 pane of glass in one of the windows turned by the 
 moonlight into the semblance of a narrow eye, 
 malignantly watchful. 
 
 Was she crouching there now, in the corner, that 
 fair-haired girl — the basilisk gaze of the Red Cardinal 
 upon her? Here I feel a clammy chill creep over 
 me. The Marquis, with those uneasy eyes of his, ob- 
 serves it. 
 
 "Has this old house any special interest for you, 
 Lucius, that you survey it so intently?" (His voice has 
 the same suspicious tone, as when he questioned me 
 about the Satyr.) 
 
 Before I can decide what to answer, I hear Fre- 
 derick's footstep on the gravel. 
 
 "Heaven keep him silent!" is my mental ejacula- 
 tion. My prayer is heard. Frederick appears, burst- 
 ing with mystery, but only communicating to me in a 
 Avhisper that, if supper is not ready soon, he shall eat 
 the Marquis. 
 
 Getting no answer, the Marquis repeats his question. 
 
 "Surely, Anzano," I say; "you forget that I am 
 here for the first time." 
 
 6*
 
 84 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 "Excuse my impatience, Lucius. I live so much 
 alone, I fear that my abruptness degenerates into 
 rudeness." 
 
 Then, taking in the whole scene with a sorrowful 
 glance, as if weary of himself and of all around, he 
 passes his arm within mine and we pass under the 
 portico, Frederick following us with a loud and hungry 
 yawn.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 As we cross the threshold the Marquis again em- 
 braces me. 
 
 "Dear Lucius!" he exclaims with a fervour the 
 occasion hardly warrants; "would that you had come 
 before! Who knows whether the fates might not have 
 been more propitious!" 
 
 In the hall he addresses himself to Frederick, but, 
 so absorbed is that young gentleman in staring about 
 him, that I actually have to administer a sharp rap 
 upon his shoulder to make him attend. 
 
 "You, too, Mr. Stanley, are welcome to my house. 
 Now, it is for your uncle's sake — soon I doubt not it 
 will be for your own." With a winning smile he ex- 
 tends his hand. 
 
 "Thanks; you are very kind," replies Fred, his 
 eyes round with wonder at the vaulted walls, illumi- 
 nated by clusters of wax lights fixed in golden sconces. 
 "But it is all so awfully grand, it quite bewilders 
 me." 
 
 " Certainly, Anzano," I say, endeavouring to qualify 
 Frederick's gaucherie, "you are lodged like an em- 
 peror." 
 
 "Oh, believe me, if you had travelled more out of 
 the beaten track in Italy, you would think little of this 
 mountain retreat." 
 
 "Mountain retreat! What, the bijou residence of
 
 86 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 a rich Cardinal? We know the depth of ecclesiastical 
 pockets too well to believe that. Even by night, and 
 with the cursory view I have had of it, I can see what 
 enormous sums must have been lavished here." 
 
 As if anxious to drop a distasteful subject, the 
 Marquis made no repl}^ while I, knowing what I do 
 about the Cardinal, repent that I have again alluded 
 to him. My friend not only shrinks from all mention 
 of his uncle's name, but invariably tries to suppress 
 all allusion to his wealth or any praise called forth by 
 its possession. 
 
 But for this peculiarity, under his own roof he be- 
 comes quite another man, and performs the part of 
 host with an alacrity and graciousness I could not 
 have given him credit for. Now he is stepping from 
 side to side, anxious to explain everything to me. 
 
 The hall is supported by pilasters of giallo-antico 
 and deep red porphyry, the intervening spaces lined 
 with panels of Siena marble, white, relieved by a bold 
 design in black and yellow. Opposite the lofty en- 
 trance appear the Gonzago arms, coronet and sup- 
 porters, emblazoned on gold, and at the extreme end, 
 backed by a canopy of purple velvet, a cardinal's red 
 hat, with pendant cords and tassels. 
 
 Semi-colossal busts on canned pedestals line the 
 shining walls. 
 
 "The twelve Csesars," says the Marquis. "Antiques, 
 brought from Rome. We live here, inside and out, in 
 a world of sculpture. The statue of Victor}^ to the 
 right, and that of Plenty opposite," he is pointing to 
 the portico, " are from the gardens of Antinous. The 
 fresco on the ceiling is by Raphael Mengs, the apo-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 87 
 
 theosis of an ancestral Pope into Olympus — rather a 
 pagan treatment for the Vicar of Christ." 
 
 "Oh, but," I answer, "they have never shorn the 
 Papacy of the honours of the Pontifex Maximus. The 
 power of the keys locks up almost as much pagan fic- 
 tion as Christian forgery." 
 
 "Ah, Lucius, still unorthodox. We must send for 
 our chaplain, Don Antonio, to exorcise you into filial 
 obedience. These different rooms," as he speaks, he 
 indicates four marble portals at the four corners of 
 the hall, "lead to the library, my own study, and the 
 domestic apartments, including the cellar — an impor- 
 tant item in a house where so much wine is made. 
 The principal saloons are on the first floor. This is 
 the dining-room, which concerns us most at present." 
 
 "I care not how soon that concern is made ap- 
 parent," say I. "I confess to a very hearty appetite." 
 
 We turn to the left through the first of the pillared 
 doorways into a well-lighted room, glowing with rich 
 tapestry, A well-furnished table, set with fruit and 
 flowers, and resplendent with ancestral plate, occupies 
 the centre. 
 
 "This is but a small room," observes the Marquis, 
 following my eye as it sweeps round, "compared with 
 the size of the house; but Italians are not diners-out 
 like the English. We rarely or ever entertain at din- 
 ner, except in great cities, or on official occasions. 
 The dining-room is, there/ore, constructed with regard 
 to the family circle. It is usually the smallest of the 
 living-rooms." 
 
 I had missed Fred while we were inspecting the 
 hall. Now, to my horror, I behold him, seated at the 
 table in company with Sigismund. The sight of food
 
 88 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 has apparently thawed his shyness and enharged his 
 vocabulary. He is talking volubly. His boyish ges- 
 tures, unformed features, and absurd effort at a mous- 
 tache contrasting painfully with the statuesque outline 
 of head and neck, the lightly-curling black locks, and 
 full, silky beard of the stately Sigismund. 
 
 Truly my poor Fred is but a schoolboy, but one 
 feels that the other's clear black eyes, with much of 
 the veiled fire of his brother's glance — without the 
 restless, far-off look — could never have been different. 
 
 Sigismund, leaning back carelessly in his chair, is 
 scrutinising his companion with an amused stare. 
 Though seated at the table, he has not touched any- 
 thing. He is incapable of eating in the absence of 
 the master, a refinement quite lost on Master Frederick. 
 
 Gliding noiselessly about on the soft carpet, an 
 elderly major-domo in black receives the dishes from 
 an opening in the wall. 
 
 As we enter, he bows his head with an air distress- 
 fully apologetic to the Marquis, as for having presumed 
 to serve the table in his absence. By an expressive, 
 not-to-be-described pantomime, the major-domo signi- 
 fies that he has been forced to do so against his will; 
 then, drawing a particularly imposing arm-chair from 
 the wall, he places it at the head of the table. Frede- 
 rick and Sigismund both rise — Fred with his mouth 
 full and very red in the face. 
 
 "Do not move, I beg," says the Marquis, taking in 
 the whole scene, and smiling. For Sigismund's empty 
 plate, and the deprecatory action of his hands, indicate 
 that it is the visitor's fault, not his own, that impli- 
 cates him in an action so wanting in respect to his 
 elder.
 
 "IHE RED CARDINAL. 8g 
 
 "^\Tiy such ceremony, Sigismund?" says the 
 Marquis. "Why apologise? I am delighted my young 
 friend, Mr. Stanley, has already begun. We have 
 loitered unduly in the hall." 
 
 I give Frederick a glance that he perfectly under- 
 stands, and colours to the roots of his hair. Such a 
 want of savoir /aire is intolerable ! 
 
 "What will Frederick attempt next?" I ask myself 
 with dismay, and, not for the first time, I silently ana- 
 thematize my folly in having brought him. 
 
 Once seated, the excellence of the cuisine causes 
 me to forget his misdemeanors. The numerous dishes 
 have just that relish of the forest and the field, so 
 attractive to an appetite jaded with the routine of table 
 d'hote dinners. 
 
 First came wild boar, stewed in a delicious condi- 
 ment called "sour-sweet" sauce, composed of almonds, 
 pistaccio nuts and plums, as impossible for any but 
 Italian fingers to concoct, as for Christians to manu- 
 facture sherbet. Then quails, with a mountain twang 
 of aromatic herbs, vainly to be looked for in the well- 
 fed birds that fatten in our woods, thick with soft 
 roots and tender sprouting underwood; the course of 
 game followed by a cunning combination of maccaroni 
 flavoured with spiced livers, cock's-combs and unborn 
 eggs, called "risotto," interchanged with interludes of 
 golden "fritto," cooked in the first pure cru of olive 
 oil, and "gnocchi," exquisite cakes of newly-ground 
 Indian corn, with a pure clean taste quite indescribable, 
 save "in action" between the teeth, something related 
 in its purest element to almonds, with a delicate 
 souvenir of cocoa-nut superadded. 
 
 There is the inevitable roast and salad; only the
 
 go THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 roast is a lordly peacock, its brilliant tail extending 
 across the entire table, its head erect, with glistening 
 glass eyes bent upon us reproachfully for the barbarity 
 we are perpetrating towards the majesty of fowl, as 
 slice after slice is withdrawn from its roomy chest 
 until the breast-bone shines out sepulchral. 
 
 As to the sweets — vain were my pen. Oh, muse, 
 inspire me! Nothing but alexandrines of longest and 
 loftiest metre could set forth the triumphs of the 
 dole?'. 
 
 I sit opposite -to a Grecian temple of pastr}', 
 glittering with pillars, capitals, cornices and vaultings 
 of various coloured fruits, with a frothy roof of whipt 
 cream, high-crested and rolling, strewed, as by a bene- 
 ficent hurricane, with bon-bons. The Grecian temple 
 is followed by ices, coloured and shaped into the 
 semblance of peaches, pomegranates, grapes, melons 
 and oranges, piled up amid leaves and stalks; equally 
 deceptive to the taste, as to the sight — for each ice 
 bears a resemblance, not only in form and colour but 
 in flavour, to its prototype. 
 
 A cake, there is too, most marvellous to behold, 
 fashioned into the outline of a mountain landscape 
 adorned with rocky cliffs and precipitous defiles of 
 sweet and bitter almonds; the snow-capped mountains 
 — sugar, with every variety of coloured preserves, cut 
 into trees, shrubs and flowers. Even the groups of 
 shepherds and shepherdesses d la Watteau, in the 
 foreground, clothed in red cherry and greengage, the 
 ribbons cut from the rinds of oranges; the flags and 
 pennants from the speckled skins of summer melons 
 and red cactus fruit. 
 
 From extolling the dishes, the conversation natur-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. Q I ' 
 
 ally turns upon the wine. Here the Marquis becomes 
 really interested. He has listened with polite in- 
 difference to my eulogies of his cook — Frederick back- 
 ing me up in all I utter; somewhat in the style of a 
 rough Greek Chorus, untutored to the proper note of 
 intonation. 
 
 Our eulogies of the wine touch my friend's feel- 
 ings. He insists on my trying various qualities; more 
 or less of the "Broglio" or "Chianti" vintages — all red 
 wine about Siena partakes of the general qualities of 
 Baron Ricasoli's lordly brews of Chianti at his mediaeval 
 castle of Broglio, froAvning from the Apennine Casen- 
 tino over the undulating hills that hem in Siena. 
 
 My friend's home-made champagne is detestable, 
 and perilously sour; but a certain kind of Malaga, as 
 frankly luscious as the first juice of the summer grape 
 can make it, rests on my palate as an excellent speci- 
 men of native manufacture. 
 
 "That wine," it is the Marquis who is speaking, 
 "was improvised to serve for sacramental purposes at 
 the Vatican, at the time of the Gonzago Pope, and 
 was deemed a success. It is called 'Vino Santo' (holy 
 wine), and is used on all high festive and religious oc- 
 casions by every one of our name, here at Siena and 
 also at Mantua. For I must tell you, Lucius, that the 
 ancient Gonzago palace which came to me from my 
 father, is at Mantua, not at Siena. 
 
 "It is so long since we have had a birth or a mar- 
 riage, the custom has almost been forgotten; but when 
 Sigismund brings home a bride " 
 
 At these words, Sigismund changes colour, leans 
 back in his chair, and raises a pair of flashing eyes, 
 full on his brother.
 
 g2 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Not heeding Sigismund's movement, nor the agita- 
 tion that works silently upon his features, the Marquis 
 repeats the same words a second time, louder and 
 more emphatically, casting at the same time a defiant 
 glance round the table. 
 
 "I repeat, when Sigismund, 7}iy heir " 
 
 As the words "?;/ji^ heir" pass his lips, his voice 
 thrills into the corners of the ebony-furnitured room, a 
 threat and a menace. 
 
 "Gonzago!" cries Sigismund, starting to his feet. , 
 A moment after he re-seats himself, but his indignant 
 eyes are still riveted on the Marquis, who not by the 
 smallest glance deigns to heed him. 
 
 "When Sigismund brings home a bride," he re- 
 peats, in the same defiant tone, looking straight before 
 him, "it is in that sacramental wine that I shall drink 
 her health, and prosperity to the ancient house of the 
 Gonzagos." 
 
 Before this passage of arms between the brothers, 
 we had been talking almost gaily between the courses. 
 Now we all fall back into solemn silence. Sigismund 
 drops his eyes upon his plate, and the Marquis sits 
 frowning and impenetrable. 
 
 Why did my friend continually revert to the sub- 
 ject of Sigismund's marriage? This was the second 
 time he had done so, in words almost identical. And 
 why was that marriage a prohibited subject? Ever 
 since I first knew him, the Marquis had invariably 
 shown himself just, generous and self-sacrificing. Even 
 now, greatly as he was changed, he had said much 
 that had called forth my respect and my admiration. 
 
 But at this moment, I could not help thinking that 
 he was both tyrannical and insolent, except on the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 93 
 
 supposition of some gross misconduct on the part of 
 his brother; which, looking at Sigismund's noble 
 countenance (as refined in expression as perfect in 
 beauty), sitting immovable, in a kind of dignified 
 protest against the Marquis, I could not believe pos- 
 sible. Even if Sigismund did become his heir, by his 
 brother's voluntary abstention from marriage, what 
 right had he to force on him an alliance evidently ab- 
 horrent to his feelings? 
 
 I confess I found myself distinctly taking Sigis- 
 mund's part against my friend. There was a fierce 
 determination about the Marquis absolutely offensive. 
 His very voice changed to a harsh metallic ring. Al- 
 together a new revelation to me of his character, and 
 one to which the past could afford me no analogy. 
 
 During the awkward pause that ensued, I began to 
 cast my eyes around the room. 
 
 On entering it had been too dark to distinguish 
 anything plainly. Now I see that the walls are hung 
 with some brocaded material — stamped leather, I think 
 — with much dark gold about it, and that heavily 
 carved ebony cabinets, marble tables and pictures in 
 splendid frames, break the surface of the walls. 
 
 I am sitting on the right hand of the Marquis; on 
 his left is an empty chair. 
 
 From the moment I perceive that chair, a sort of 
 fascination seizes me. For whom is it placed? Why 
 is it vacant? The Marquis has mentioned no other 
 member of his family besides his brother. Gradually 
 the sinister air of the place seems to gather round 
 me. There is mystery in the woods — in the old fac- 
 tory. Is there mystery in the house also? That chair! 
 Is it placed there for an earthly occupant, or is it de-
 
 94 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 signed to receive the impalpable impress of some 
 spirit of the dead? 
 
 The Marquis arrested my glance in the very act as 
 it were of inquiry. A faint tinge of colour rises on his 
 cheeks. 
 
 "You are observing that chair, Lucius? It ought 
 not to be there. Our party is complete." 
 
 He speaks hurriedly. Sigismund, who has been 
 sitting with his face shaded by one hand, whilst with 
 the other he has carried glass after glass of red wine 
 to his lips, as though unconscious of what he was 
 doing, now drops his hand upon the table with a force 
 that makes it tremble; then leaning forward, rivets his 
 eyes upon his brother. 
 
 To my amazement, the Marquis quails under his 
 gaze. A visible tremor passes through his frame. 
 Without offering one word of explanation, he turns ab- 
 ruptly to the major-domo, who is standing behind his 
 chair. 
 
 "Remove that chair, Antonio," pointing to the 
 empty seat. "Place it no more at table." 
 
 Antonio, too well- drilled to offer any observation, 
 simply bows, but the expression of his face shows his 
 astonishment. 
 
 "The most Illustrious shall be obeyed in all 
 things," he murmurs, as with evident reluctance he 
 places the chair against the wall. 
 
 "No, no; not there — not there!" says the Marquis. 
 "Remove it altogether from the room! Take it away! 
 You know its place " 
 
 There is neither anger nor passion in his manner. 
 It is rather the firm, but sorrowful bearing of one 
 called upon to perform a painful duty.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 95 
 
 This seems more than Sigismund can bear. With 
 a furious gesture he rises. 
 
 "You cannot — you dare not — banish" (I did not 
 catch the name). "Her right is equal to your own! 
 Never while I live shall you avail yourself of her 
 weakness ! If she goes, I go also ! " 
 
 He stops, arrested by the death-like pallor of the 
 Marquis, who sits, pressing one hand against his 
 heart, and panting for breath. Then, as if all at once 
 realising my presence, Sigismund bows to me hastily, 
 and strides out of the room. 
 
 For once in his life Frederick has the sense to 
 understand he is not wanted, and, as he can eat no 
 more, he rises also, and disappears.
 
 96 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Anzano and I were now alone. He was leaning 
 back in his chair, too much overcome to notice any- 
 thing. His chest heaved, and the muscles of his throat 
 were swollen to bursting. 
 
 What could possibly be the cause of such intense 
 excitement? Sigismund? His marriage? Some feud 
 between the brothers? 
 
 I dared not ask my friend. I dared not even ex- 
 press compassion for his condition, so cold and im- 
 penetrable was his aspect, as he sat apart, battling 
 with his emotion. Gradually his laboured breathing 
 became more regular, the rigid attitude relaxed. I 
 perceived that I had judged rightly in leaving him to 
 recover himself in silence, for no sooner was he some- 
 what restored, than I could see he was endeavour- 
 ing so to control his features as to make it appear 
 that he attached no importance to Sigismund's re- 
 proaches. 
 
 Raising himself with an effort, he slowly took out 
 his cigar-case, offered it to me, who declined with a 
 silent bow, selected one for himself, and began to 
 smoke. 
 
 In the brief space occupied by these moments of 
 suffering, I came to realise what a lifetime had passed 
 since we had met. What did I know of the secrets 
 those years contained? That he had secrets was
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 97 
 
 clear. To say nothing of Filippo's story, he himself 
 had confessed as much to me. Would he now dis- 
 close more? 
 
 "Lucius," he said at last, gazing appealingly into 
 my face and clasping one of my hands— his thin, 
 bony fingers lingering among mine, as if the contact 
 was grateful to him — "Lucius, when you proposed to 
 visit me, my first movement was one of joy. I had 
 not known such joy for years. I seized a pen, and 
 in a kind oi furore, indited a letter entreating you to 
 come. Before that letter was finished reflection fol- 
 lowed. I doubted whether I ought to receive you. 
 Never did I feel — no, never" — again he pressed my 
 hand — "more profoundly how much I loved you. But 
 there are circumstances in our family over which I 
 have no control — Would to Heaven I had!" he ejacu- 
 lated in a parenthesis, " — upon which I must be ab- 
 solutely silent. Dear Lucius, I warn you of this be- 
 forehand. Do not let it vex you." 
 
 His manner was as tender as a woman's. A mourn- 
 ful, yearning expression was in his eyes as he turned 
 them on me — a kind of physical clinging in his at- 
 titude more felt than expressed, that lent conviction 
 to his words. 
 
 Quick as lightning, a flash of thought revealed 
 him to me as a man predestined to some fatal doom; 
 what I could only guess, but doomed irrevocably. 
 
 "Anzano," — my voice was trembling, and tears 
 were in my eyes — "we have ever been as brothers." 
 
 "More than brothers," he murmured, glancing with 
 knitted brows at the seat lately occupied by Sigis- 
 mund. 
 
 "Tell me frankly, by the confidence between us, 
 
 Tne Red Cardinal. 7 
 
 I
 
 g8 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 shall I return to-morrow morning to Siena? Our car- 
 riage is still here. Believe me, I would go, never 
 doubting your affection." 
 
 "No, no!" he cried, almost wildly. "No!" 
 
 His deep-toned voice woke the echoes of the 
 room, darkened by the sombre reflex of the deep red 
 hangings and the funereal hue of the antique furni- 
 ture. 
 
 "Shall it be said that Anzano Gonzago is sunk so 
 low that he dare not receive his friend?" 
 
 Here he was forced to stop; his voice shook so 
 violently. Had he uttered another syllable, he would 
 have sobbed aloud. What he said was wrung from 
 his innermost heart. He did not want to speak — he 
 would have preferred heroically to suffer in silence; 
 but his strong attachment to me overmastered his 
 pride, and drove him to expression. How I pitied his 
 struggles — the struggles of a noble nature, vanquished 
 by a relentless fate. 
 
 The tears brimming in my eyes now rolled down 
 my cheeks. 
 
 "I will do what you like," I answered, as soon as 
 I could speak. "I place myself at your disposal. 
 Command me. If you wish me to stay, I stay; if you 
 wish me to go, I go. I will do anything to serve 
 you." 
 
 "I know you will, Lucius," he replied, clasping 
 my hand warmly; then added, when we were more 
 composed: "If you want to comfort me, stay. Your 
 departure would wound me beyond expression. Stay, 
 Lucius, and help me to bear what lies before me. 
 Brain, reason, life even " 
 
 A profound sigh broke his words. Then, as if
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. QQ 
 
 determined to change the subject, he made a feeble 
 effort to re-light his cigar. 
 
 "You do not smoke?" he asked, trying hard to 
 resume his usual manner. 
 
 "Rarely," I replied. "Not now," and I put aside 
 the cigar he offered me. "But, ray dear Anzano, 
 how can I help you, if you do not trust me? You 
 confided to me the loss of your betrothed. Go on 
 further." 
 
 "True, true," he replied, "whatever relates to my- 
 self. But you do not knoAV — you cannot comprehend 
 the difficulties of my position. It involves others be- 
 sides myself Both the dead and the living. The 
 dead vicariously, the living as the condition of my 
 birth. Besides, I am convinced you would not be- 
 lieve me. You would treat all I said as the hallucina- 
 tion of an over-excited brain. You English are so 
 different; you live in the light of the sun; all your 
 actions are open. There is nothing, in fact, to hide 
 about you or your families. But we, born of the old 
 Latin races, crime-stained and historic, are other- 
 wise. 
 
 "Within the mouldering halls of our feudal palaces, 
 lurks many a dark tale of treachery and murder. 
 Our ancestral strongholds have been too often the 
 scene of conspiracy and bloodshed. Son has risen 
 against father, brother against brother, the vassal 
 against his lord. The gloomy traditions of the past 
 cling to our walls. Even among the wild fastnesses 
 of our mountains, in the solitude of our pre-historic 
 woods " 
 
 Here his voice failed him for a moment. Would 
 
 7' 
 
 k
 
 lOO THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 he seek to map out thus in measured language his 
 own history? 
 
 "The fair face of Nature blackened by shadowy 
 forms, called up from another Avorld to cry vengeance 
 against the living! Such is often our life, Lucius — a 
 life burdened, not always by our own misdeeds, but 
 by those bequeathed to us from our fathers. In- 
 herited with our lands — stained with the blood they 
 shed, the sacrilege they committed." 
 
 "In a word, your old enemy, the Greek Nemesis, 
 Anzano, of classic drama, brought into modern life!— 
 eh, my friend?" 
 
 But he gave no heed to me. His face had grown 
 dark, his voice sounded hollow, and those wild eyes 
 of his moving restless in their orbits, seemed un- 
 ceasingly to follow something which horrified while it 
 fascinated him. I had noted this in the ilex-wood. 
 Now I trembled for his reason. 
 
 It was this feeling which made me endeavour to 
 give a lighter turn to the conversation. 
 
 "You are very mysterious," I continued in the 
 same tone. "The Italy you describe is not the beauti- 
 ful, cheerful land I delight in— full of happy, pleasure- 
 seeking multitudes. I cannot venture to dispute with 
 you on your own ground," I added, "neither can I 
 pretend to understand you." 
 
 He shook his head mournfully. 
 "Thank God, it is not with you as it is with me, 
 Lucius! Seek to know nothing here beneath the sur- 
 face. When knowledge brings sorrow, happy are the 
 ignorant! I, too, was once ignorant! Would that I 
 had died before that changed!"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. ;OI 
 
 He Stopped and shuddered, then dropped his head 
 on his breast, and sat like one entranced. 
 
 I felt utterly at a loss. This atmosphere of mys- 
 tery, this sombre pre-occupation, oppressed me. Always 
 on the point of telling me some terrible secret, he 
 always drew back just as the words trembled on 
 his lips. 
 
 Bodily fatigue too increased my perturbation. I 
 moved uneasily in my chair. The bronze clock on 
 the carved chimney-piece pointed to eleven. I had 
 been astir since five. 
 
 "I will say thus much, Lucius," said the Marquis 
 suddenly, evidently following out some line of thought 
 that had risen in his brain. "Let nothing that my 
 brother, Sigismund, says or does, surprise you. Sigis- 
 mund has many noble qualities. His physical beauty 
 is his least merit. He is brave, constant and loyal; 
 until lately, I should have added, deeply attached to 
 myself. For many years we have lived together as 
 true brothers, spite of the external difference of age 
 and of habits. 
 
 "But the time has come when I have been called 
 upon to control him. He resents this as a deadly in- 
 jury. He is acting under the influence of passion. 
 He hates me! — Soon he will curse me! Nor will that 
 move me; time and circumstances must be my jus- 
 tification." 
 
 What a weary sigh heaved his breast! And how 
 far away his wild eyes wandered! 
 
 "This is not the moment," he continued, trying 
 hard to assume a more equable tone, "to speak of 
 myself — the moment of your arrival. I had hoped 
 Sigismund would have exercised more control in your
 
 102 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 presence, but he forgot himself. Under that gracious 
 exterior he is capable of desperate resolves. Again I 
 say, be surprised at nothing he does or says. Pass it 
 over, my friend — Do not observe it." 
 
 I was utterly staggered at this extraordinary lan- 
 guage. The marriage! The empty chair! Was it 
 about that empty chair the brothers had quarrelled? 
 That chair, or rather the person that should have 
 filled it? Why should Anzano not tell me? 
 
 As we sat on, my eyes following the slowly revolv- 
 ing minute-hand of the clock, and wondering within 
 myself when he would propose a move, I heard foot- 
 steps outside in the hall. The stillness of the night 
 Avas so intense, that the sound quite startled me. Im- 
 mediately after, Sigismund and Frederick entered to- 
 gether. Every cloud had vanished from Sigismund's 
 brow. He too, like his brother, evidently desired to 
 make me forget what had passed. Avoiding the side 
 of the table on which Anzano sat, he placed himself, 
 with studied courtesy, on my other side. 
 
 "I have just met Mr. Stanley in the colonnade," he 
 said. "We have been talking; I am glad to find he is 
 fond of sport. He affects to laugh at our Italian game; 
 but I tell him that the wild-boar in these ilex-woods 
 and the deer on the tops of the mountains will afford 
 him quite as much excitement as fox-hunting." 
 
 "Ah! but it is the sport — the riding! Not the 
 little miserable fox!" I replied, smiling both at 
 Frederick's pretensions and Sigismund's determination 
 to make the most of what he could offer. 
 
 "I propose," continued Sigismund, "to spend a 
 quiet day to-morrow showing Mr. Stanley our woods. 
 You must not be prejudiced against them by first im-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. IO3 
 
 presslons taken at night. By daylight, I assure you, 
 you will think the ilex trees magnificent." 
 
 An audible yawn from Frederick, who had thrown 
 himself upon a distant couch, broke in upon our con- 
 versation — a yawn so audible that even the Marquis 
 was aware of it. 
 
 He first looked at me, then at Frederick. 
 
 "I see you are tired, Lucius. As for my young 
 friend there, I need not ask if bed will be agreeable 
 to him. His unsophisticated frankness delights me," 
 he added, as he rose from the table. 
 
 Sigismund, keeping well out of the range of his 
 brother's eye, rose also, and taking a hasty leave of 
 me, retired before we left the dining-room. 
 
 The candles were burning low in their sockets 
 when we returned to the hall. A strong current of 
 outer air from the entrance — (the door was still wide 
 open; indeed, I may here remark that I never saw that 
 door closed at any hour) — was blowing them about 
 wildly, the light glancing fantastically on the busts; 
 there catching a lock of marble hair- — there the stony 
 eyebrow of an imperial personage; playing on the tip 
 of an august nose, or on a pupil-less eye, formed to 
 command; the cardinal's hat assuming colossal pro- 
 portions as it swayed in mid-air, and a central giran- 
 dole scintillating fitfully. 
 
 Frederick and I trod uncertainly upon shafts of 
 yellow light flitting across the marble floor, and 
 stumbled as we miscalculated our distance in the 
 gloom. 
 
 From a table of rich mosaic, our host took a 
 lighted lucerna, and with a ceremonious bow proceeded 
 to usher us towards an archway which broke the side
 
 I04 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 wall to the right, leading to a flight of stairs that lost 
 themselves in darkness. 
 
 "Excuse me, Lucius," he said, before setting his 
 foot on the first step, "if I precede you in my own 
 house. The servants have omitted to light up the 
 stairs, and you may find the ascent difficult." 
 
 Holding the liicerna high above his head, he passed 
 on, his dark figure forming itself into a centre round 
 which the light played. 
 
 What stairs! Straight, broad, steep and funereal. 
 Each step answering to the next, as if they never were 
 going to end. I heard Frederick puffing behind me; 
 the Marquis ascended steadily. Now he shifted the 
 lucerna a little, and his figure formed itself into the 
 image of a gigantic spectre, engulfing us in its se- 
 pulchral gloom. 
 
 At length we reached a broad square landing, 
 where marble casings enclosed various lofty doors. 
 Straight before us stretched another flight of stairs, 
 steeper, if possible, than the last. 
 
 "Ay Jove!" exclaimed Fred, "this is a winder!" 
 
 The Marquis smiled as he noticed our looks of 
 dismay. 
 
 "You will get accustomed to this in a week, 
 Lucius. We must have space for our vaulted ceilings, 
 especially in such rooms as these," and he pointed to 
 the closed doors opening from the landing. "They 
 lead into the state apartments. Permit me." 
 
 Again he preceded us, and again he assumed the 
 appearance of a gigantic spectre. Some muttered ex- 
 clamations from behind betrayed the discomfiture of 
 Frederick. 
 
 Just as I was giving in, overcome by heat and
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. IO5 
 
 fatigue, the stairs ended, and the Marquis, with a bow, 
 led us along a spacious gallery, on one side of which 
 a row of closed windows fronted, as I perceived, the 
 fa5ade of the house, over the stone coronet. One of 
 the windows which, lighted up, had so riveted the 
 gaze of the handsome Sigismund, when we were stand- 
 ing in the garden looking up at the illumination. 
 
 Various doors broke the surface of the wall op- 
 posite. All were closed. Not a sound of any living 
 creature anywhere, only the low moan of the night 
 wind as it sighed mournfully under the broad eaves 
 of the roof 
 
 "Here, Lucius, is your room," and the Marquis 
 opened a door at the further extremity of the galleiy. 
 "It is the most comfortable in the house. I would not 
 consign you to the guest chambers below, which form 
 part of the state apartments. The dark hangings and the 
 enormous bedsteads would probably have spoilt your rest. 
 I am sure they would not have been to your English 
 taste. Here you will be more at home, I hope." 
 
 Whilst addressing me, he lighted a pair of massive 
 silver candlesticks upon the toilet. 
 
 "You will thank me for the climb in the morning, 
 when you see the view." 
 
 I thanked him as well as my short breath allowed, 
 and looked round. 
 
 "Nothing can be more homelike," said I. "An 
 iron bed, with white cotton hangings, plain handsome 
 walnut furniture, a soft carpet, mirrors, a clock, an 
 armchair. What can I wish for more? I feel I shall 
 sleep like a top. Good-night, dear Anzano! You 
 judged wisely in not putting me into one of the state 
 bedrooms. Good-night "
 
 Io6 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "And now, my young friend," — the Marquis is ad- 
 dressing Frederick, after shaking my hand affection- 
 ately — "follow me to your room." 
 
 "Am I to sleep in a state bed with velvet and 
 brocade?" asked Fred, looking at him aghast. 
 
 "And if it were so, Signor Stanley, what have you 
 to fear?" he answered haughtily, drawing himself up 
 to his full height. "Do you think I have a band of 
 brigands concealed within my house?" 
 
 As he closed my door, I heard him still continue 
 in the same offended tone: 
 
 "Youth ought to fear nothing — nothing but sin!" 
 he added hastily. 
 
 What reply Frederick made to this sententious re- 
 mark, I was happily spared from hearing. Probably 
 he was too puzzled to reply at all. Gonzago evidently 
 over-awed him. 
 
 Their retiring footsteps came dimly to my ear 
 through the closed door. Then I heard another door 
 bang violently at the extremity of the galler}^ the 
 noise ringing through the silence like the report of a 
 pistol, and another door opened and shut. 
 
 Surely Frederick had said nothing to offend the 
 Marquis, or were there more persons about than had 
 appeared as we traversed the upper story?
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. IO7 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Instead of going at once to bed, I drew out one 
 of the arm-chairs and sat down. 
 
 I was dreadfully tired, but I had reached that 
 stage of fatigue when the action of the brain, concen- 
 trating in itself all the energies of the body, produces 
 an intense excitement fatal to sleep. 
 
 Left to myself, I forgot my friend, I forgot Sigis- 
 mund, I forgot everything but the strangeness of the 
 place in which I found myself Did the sun ever 
 shine on the roof over my head, or did the mountains 
 rise up and cover it? Did men like others, live in this 
 strange abode, or were ghosts, bogies, banshees and 
 spectres let loose to torment the living who dared to 
 intrude here? 
 
 Nothing but the reassuring neatness of the white 
 curtains met my eye, but between me and those inno- 
 cent curtains a fantastic world lay hidden. 
 
 How ghastly it must be down in the ilex-wood 
 under the pale glimmer of the moon! The brooding 
 masses of quivering foliage drooping over the red 
 soil! Were the trees, bending their heads and swaying 
 their branches mutely, and were owls, bats and bull- 
 frogs, screeching out their midnight chant in horrible 
 chorus? 
 
 The Satyr! As I recalled that faceless monster in 
 the moonlight, its mangled form aloft on its pedestal,
 
 ro8 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 I actually shuddered. Was its wicked head still sway- 
 ing in the wind, as I saw it? Was it sighing that hol- 
 low sigh that echoed mine? Was Gigia watching under 
 its evil shade, her dazzling hair glittering against the 
 stars? 
 
 Bit by bit, Filippo's story rose up palpable before 
 me. I saw the Cardinal's red coach turn the angle of 
 the road, Gigia start from the marble bench, out of 
 the midst of flowers, the leer he cast upon the child, 
 his outward-pointed thumb, his whispered command 
 to his secretary, the jewelled ring sparkling on the 
 earth, the paid assassins, who carried her off, her 
 ignorant terror, those monstrous espousals, still cele- 
 brated, night after night, by spectres, and that last 
 dagger-thrust, which ended her innocent life, when 
 that life was blasted. The young priest, too, with the 
 look of terror in his eyes, who died so suddenly. Was 
 he murdered, that he might not sqeak? And the old 
 man, Giacomo — Gigia's grandfather? — Did the curse 
 of these iniquities cling to Anzano? The vacant chair 
 — what did that portend? Was some horrible crisis at 
 hand, in which I should be implicated? 
 
 Here my brain lost itself in wild conjectures. If 
 it were so, I resolved I would not forsake Anzano. I 
 had promised to help him — I would keep my word. 
 This thought calmed me. It was a practical issue out 
 of bewildering unreality. 
 
 Then my train of thought shifted, and I endea- 
 voured to recall all that I had, from time to time, 
 heard of my friend's career. 
 
 In my present mood, fatigued and exhausted, but 
 wakeful, my memory ran back, with startling distinct-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. lOQ 
 
 ness, over a whole series of years — recalling long-for- 
 gotten events and dimly remembered details. 
 
 The ^'■heir Ajizatio," as Gonzaga was called (after 
 all, Sigismund was but a replica of his brother on a 
 grander scale), was, I had heard, a leader among the 
 highest aristocracy at Rome, and rode to hounds on 
 his English hunters as no Italian ever did, before or 
 since. 
 
 He was not wanting either in more gentle accom- 
 plishments. As a boy, he had played and sung ad- 
 mirably. Later, I was informed, he was esteemed, 
 even in fastidious Italy, a first-rate musician; also an 
 elegant artist in the genre style. Some of his works 
 were exhibited at Milan, among other places, where I 
 had recognised them with pleasure, signed by his 
 name. 
 
 "His manners were said to be the happiest mix- 
 ture of sweetness and dignity." A French Diplomatist 
 told me this, and added: — "There was a charm about 
 him which even broke through the morgue of the Ro- 
 man princesses. He arranged fetes, pic-nics and 
 petits-diners of an entrain never before permitted in 
 their august circle. All prejudices — envy itself, was 
 silenced by his goodness and talent." 
 
 The Pope, I heard, during one of my early autumn 
 visits to Rome — where I had always missed my friend, 
 for that was the time of the Italian villeggiatura, when 
 the world of fashion was absent — had made him a 
 personal request to command his Guardia Nobile. This 
 Gonzago declined, as I understood, as infringing on 
 his independence, political and personal. (There was 
 a report that his devotion to a certain royal princess, 
 then residing at Rome, was the true motive of this re-
 
 I I O THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 fusal.) A coolness with the Vatican — I am now speak- 
 ing of many years ago, when the Pope was not a "pri- 
 soner" — ensued, which caused my friend to leave the 
 City. To Victor Emmanuel he never rallied himself. 
 
 Many of these details I had completely forgotten, 
 but in my excited condition they all came back to 
 me. Every little word recalled as clearly as if told 
 me but yesterday. 
 
 Then I heard of the Marquis, years after, at Siena, 
 keeping open house in his ancestral palace, with a 
 magnificence quite mediaeval. I had at that time 
 made up my mind to pay him a visit, but the death 
 of Frederick's mother, my favourite sister, called me 
 back unexpectedly to England. 
 
 During a hasty trip to the Italian lakes, a rumour of 
 his approaching marriage reached me. The lady's 
 name escaped my memory. Indeed, as I had not 
 heard that the marriage was broken off by the tragical 
 death of his betrothed, the particulars of which he had 
 just related to me — I was under the impression, when 
 I proposed visiting him, that he was already married. 
 But his reply undeceived me. The loss of this lady, 
 however severely felt — and the strange circumstances 
 attending her death, were such as would shock in no 
 common degree a nature as sensitive and superstitious 
 as Anzano's — could scarcely have sufficed to sever him 
 so utterly from his former life. 
 
 No! The cause must be sought in some mysterious 
 connection between his uncle, the Cardinal, and him- 
 self. His own half-dropped words led to this conclu- 
 sion. These dark hints pointed manifestly to some 
 cause out of the ordinary course of nature. 
 
 The morbid workings of his brain, the abrupt
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I I I 
 
 transition from ordinary conversation to lugubrious ab- 
 straction, his brooding looks and the weird atmosphere 
 in which he lived, alarmed me for his reason. 
 
 My poor friend! How he must have suffered! At 
 this point my thoughts suddenly drifted into a new 
 current. Was it possible that, after all, he was an in- 
 curable hypochondriac? He looked thin and ill. Could 
 disease have transformed him into what I found him? 
 
 A hypochondriac! A new idea! Yes, that might 
 account for his condition — his melancholy aspect and 
 extraordinary prepossessions! 
 
 After all, what had I heard? A wild story from a 
 driver of Siena. As the Marquis said, he might be a 
 liar, and his lies might have led me, unconsciously, to 
 imagine a great deal, referring to entirely different 
 causes. The division between the brothers, so tragic- 
 ally impressive from that melodramatic manner natural 
 to Italians, might, in reality, be nothing but a tempo- 
 rary estrangement; some passing fancy of Sigismund's, 
 unsanctioned by his brother. Yes, yes! it must be so. 
 I had allowed myself to be unduly impressioned. 
 
 That Gonzago, Avith his boyish belief in Nemesis 
 and the blind power of fate, might, after a solitary 
 existence among these dreary woods and repellent 
 mountains, be suffering from a monomania dangerous 
 to his sanity, was of course possible; but that I, breath- 
 ing the wholesome tonic of the outer world, should 
 catch the infection, was a supposition both childish 
 and absurd. 
 
 Feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself, I rose from 
 the comfortable chair in which I had ensconced my- 
 self, and proceeded to undress. 
 
 Some benevolent individual connected with my
 
 I I 2 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 friend's household, had unpacked my trunk and 
 thoughtfully laid my dressing-gown across a chair. 
 Never before did I so rejoice in the possession of that 
 loose and commodious garment, in exchange for a 
 cloth coat, so inappropriate to August in Italy. 
 
 I looked round the room. Could anything be 
 more cosy? A happy union of homeliness and luxury. 
 The wax-lights in the tall, silver candlesticks burned 
 brightly, doubling themselves in a toilet-glass, more 
 appropriate, in size and decoration, to a belle pre- 
 paring for a ball, than to a stout old gentleman with 
 nothing in the way of personal attractions. 
 
 Turning round, I lovingly contemplated the bed, 
 with its white hangings looped up with pink bows. A 
 touch of art, those pink bows, from some amiable 
 female; the bed-linen, too, as white as snow, and smell- 
 ing sweetly of lavender, looked most inviting. 
 
 Had I been asked at this moment if I had heard 
 or seen anything extraordinary since I had entered 
 the ancestral woods of the Gonzagos, I should have 
 laughed scornfully and answered — "No!" All thought 
 was melting into a delicious torpor. The whole world 
 loved me, and towards the whole world I felt a sleepy, 
 comfortable benevolence. 
 
 The promise of the bed was not delusive. A more 
 downy combination never yielded to the form of man. 
 Sufficiently soft to sink into — yet endured with an 
 elastic resistance that raised it above all suspicions of 
 the emollient weakness of feathers. I was in the very 
 act of obeying literally those expressive words of 
 Scripture — "Folding my hands to rest, and my eyelids
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 1 3 
 
 to slumber," when the door burst open, and Frederick 
 stood before me. 
 
 "Uncle Lucius!" he exclaimed in a husky voice, 
 utterly unlike his own. "All that fellow Filippo told 
 us, is true! / have seen her!" 
 
 "Hey — what?" I answered, out of the bed-clothes. 
 
 "Her!" he repeated, with a gasp. 
 
 "Seen whom, Fred? Speak out, boy." 
 
 He only shook his head. 
 
 "Then, perhaps," said I, waxing wroth at this un- 
 seemly interruption, "if you cannot make it convenient 
 to tell me whom you mean, you will go away and 
 leave me to sleep." 
 
 "Mean!" ejaculated Fred. "Why, Gigia — the 
 ghost! Oh, uncle, why did you come to this awful 
 hole?" 
 
 "Ghost, indeed! Frederick, you are either out of 
 your mind, or drunk! You have been improving the 
 occasion downstairs with Sigismund." 
 
 "Fll take any oath I haven't stirred." And, with- 
 out another word, he sank upon a chair. 
 
 "Oh, go to the devil!" I cried, now thoroughly 
 exasperated. "What right have you to come here and 
 waken me out of my first sleep? I don't care to hear 
 about your ghosts. Go away!" 
 
 "Uncle, I cannot go away. I — I " His voice 
 
 died away in his throat. 
 
 "Are you aware you are making yourself a nuisance 
 - — a positive nuisance?" I was now sitting up in bed. 
 In that position I could see him better. He was as 
 white as a sheet; his lips, even, colourless. 
 
 "As you have woke me up, do prevail upon your- 
 
 The Red Cardinal. "
 
 114 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 self to explain as quickly as possible what you mean, 
 and then — go!" 
 
 I emphasised the word angrily. A reproachful 
 glance from Frederick silenced me. Poor boy! there 
 was a hollow look about his eyes, darkened by black 
 circles, and he shivered so violently that his teeth 
 chattered. As he sat staring straight before him, the 
 living image of terror, that fold of universal benevolence 
 which had so lately enshrouded me gradually gave 
 place to a vivid recollection of the mysterious warnings 
 I had felt in the presence of the Marquis. 
 
 "Be a man, for God's sake, Fred!" I said, prop- 
 ping myself up with the pillows. "Whatever you have 
 seen, or think you saw " 
 
 This doubt brought Frederick to himself. He 
 started up, and the ordinary expression returned to 
 his face. 
 
 ''Thought I saw, uncle! There was no thinking 
 about it! I had no time to think. I tell you I have 
 seen her— she came into my room!" 
 
 "Oh, bosh!" I answered. I must confess I did 
 not want to be persuaded that he had seen anything 
 supernatural. 
 
 "Upon my honour!" he cried; "my honour, uncle 
 Lucius!" 
 
 "Oh, you be hanged!" I replied angrily, turning 
 towards the wall. As soon as I had spoken the words, 
 I was sorry. It was an unfeeling remark. Fred on 
 his part was furious. 
 
 "What right have you to doubt my word?" he 
 demanded, with flashing eyes. 
 
 "Softly, Fred, softly; don't put yourself in a passion.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. II5 
 
 Remember we are the guests of the Marquis Gonzago, 
 under his roof and enjoying his hospitality." 
 
 "Hospitality be blowed!" answered Fred quickly, 
 standing by my bedside and throwing his arms about 
 like a maniac. "The Marquis has no right to offer 
 hospitality when he knows he has a ghost in his house. 
 Besides, I don't like his looks; he is a bad lot. I 
 warned you when we were standing outside the house ! 
 It looked like a whitened sepulchre in the moonlight. 
 There is some beastly mystery about the whole place, 
 and the people that live here. They are not up and 
 down all right. Why on earth you, who are such a 
 brick, came poking after that old party, your school- 
 fellow, I can't conceive! Being here, I will not go 
 away without coming to the bottom of it all. That 
 black-looking Marquis — I'll unearth him! Don't dis- 
 pute with me, uncle," he added, in answer to a mute 
 expostulation of my hands out of the bed-clothes. "It 
 is no use. The ghost has come to me, and I will 
 know the reason! She " 
 
 "Who is she? Will you condescend to explain 
 yourself? Only, for God's sake, don't scream so! 
 You will awake somebody." 
 
 "Wake! I wish I could wake the whole house 
 and tell them what I think!" 
 
 "When you are calmer, Frederick, perhaps you 
 will kindly enter into some intelligible details. Re- 
 member I am in utter ignorance of what has oc- 
 curred." 
 
 I leaned back on my pillows and sighed. Was 
 sleep gone from me for ever? I suppose I looked 
 what I felt — both exhausted and dispirited. Frederick 
 suddenly softened. 
 
 8*
 
 1 1 6 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, uncle. It was your unbelief 
 that nettled me. No fellow has a right to disbelieve 
 what another fellow says, unless he knows him to be 
 a liar." 
 
 "Go on, please" I said meekly. I was becoming 
 really alarmed at the complications that were closing 
 about me. Now, here was Frederick declaring he 
 would not leave the house, until he had hunted up 
 the family spectre. 
 
 "It is to be hoped," I added spitefully, "this ap- 
 parition will not frighten you so much the next time 
 you meet." 
 
 Fred reddened to the roots of his hair. 
 
 "I won't be spoken to in that tone," he answered. 
 "It is too bad!" 
 
 "My dear Fred, if you want me to listen to you, 
 try to be calmer. I am ready to give credit to all 
 the marvels you may have to relate; and further, I am 
 willing, if you can obtain the Marquis's permission, to 
 remain indefinitely in his house, in order, as you say, 
 to unravel a mystery involving himself and his family. 
 Pray observe I make no objection." 
 
 Gradually it seemed to strike Frederick that I was 
 in complete ignorance of what had happened. 
 
 "Listen, uncle! When the Marquis — I am sure he 
 is an old villain " 
 
 At this I waved my hands, determined to avoid 
 needless discussion. 
 
 "When we left you in this room, he led me to the 
 other end of the gallery. When I passed with you, I 
 did not notice a thick curtain covering an archway in 
 the wall opposite the range of windows. This curtain 
 was now drawn aside, and a dim lamp, fixed in the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I I 7 
 
 wall, shewed another gallery, much longer and narrower, 
 leading to an entirely different part of the house. The 
 Marquis passed very quickly by, giving me an ugly 
 look as if to see what I had noticed; then stretched 
 out his hand to close the curtain, but, thinking better 
 of it apparently, went on, without doing so. Opposite 
 your room there are two doors. He tried the one 
 nearest to the stairs. It was fastened. 
 
 "This seemed to upset him terribly. He turned 
 the key in the lock several times, and shook the handle 
 violently; then fell back, and with the light examined 
 the panels all over. Again he tried the handle; it was 
 no good — the door was fast. Saying something about 
 'malediction' in Italian, he went on to the next door, 
 the one nearest to the window. The handle of this 
 turned easily enough. 
 
 "I took notice of all this, because there was some- 
 thing so peculiar in his manner, and he seemed so 
 angry about the locked door. He never said a single 
 word except that oath in Italian, but he kept twisting 
 round his head as if he expected to see something 
 behind him. Once he stopped short, and listened. I 
 heard nothing, nor did he, I think, for after a moment, 
 he seemed satisfied. 
 
 "The room we got into was small — much smaller 
 than this. There was no bed in it. A fire was smoul- 
 dering on the hearth, a sofa drawn out beside it, and 
 some flowers in a vase smelt very sweet and homelike. 
 The chairs were all pulled about, as if they had been 
 lately sat on. A black lace veil hung on one, a shawl 
 on another; and a broad blue ribbon lay, just as it 
 had dropped, upon the floor. 
 
 All this put the Marquis out more and more, par-
 
 I I 8 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 ticularly when going on into a second room, opening 
 from this one (the same, I conclude, as that of which 
 he could not undo the lock), he tripped over an open 
 box. The lid he rammed down with a bang, and 
 kicked the box into a corner, looking all the time as 
 black as thunder. 
 
 "With a lofty gesture, like the heavy father in a 
 pantomime, he pointed to the bed in the inner room 
 (bare enough, I assure you, without a scrap of furni- 
 ture), made me a grand bow, and went away. 
 
 "I was not a bit sleepy; the Marquis's odd ways 
 had set me thinking. I took up the lace veil and 
 examined it; the blue ribbon was gone, he must have 
 bagged it. They must both belong to some pretty 
 girl, I thought. That rogue, Sigismund — was he con- 
 cerned? And his old Turk of a brother in a devil of 
 a rage that I had come on it?" 
 
 It will be seen that, as he proceeded, Frederick 
 has resumed his usual bluff manner. But I must ob- 
 serve that before continuing his very disjointed narra- 
 tive, he had taken a small travelling-flask of brandy 
 from his pocket, and apparently emptied it. 
 
 "Well, Uncle Lucius, I stretched myself on the sofa, 
 and fell to thinking about Sigismund, and how he con- 
 trived to amuse himself in this old rookeiy, with that 
 antique brother, who bows with his heels together like 
 a dancing-master; until, at last, I laughed outright. 
 Somehow, my voice did not seem my own, but some 
 one else's. That gave me a sort of turn, but I got 
 over it, and began to arrange how I would chaff that 
 upsetting Sigismund in the morning, about the owner 
 of the blue riblion. 
 
 "Then all the strange things that coachman said,
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 I 9 
 
 came to my mind. The poor little devil of a girl 
 running about in the woods with her pigs, singing her 
 little songs, to be clawed up after all, by that brute of 
 a Cardinal. 
 
 "I suppose I dozed off on the sofa, I woke up 
 with a start, and there, Uncle — as I hope to be saved 
 ■ — before me, on the hearth, was something white, 
 crouching! I could make out only the outline. I 
 turned as cold as death. I wanted to call out, but 
 my voice was gone. I broke out into a cold sweat all 
 over. There it sat, all white — holding out its little 
 hands to warm them! Something stirred in the fire, 
 and a long, bright flame shot up the chimney. There 
 she was, plainly, just as the man said — all huddled 
 together. Long, light hair hanging all about. A white 
 face and dark eyebrows! 
 
 "All at once I felt her eyes upon me. Lord! How 
 cold they made me! There was a cry. I don't know 
 where it came from. I don't know if I cried, or how 
 it was — but after the cry, there was nothing between 
 me and the fire. 
 
 "I rubbed my eyes. It was gone! I wanted to 
 follow it — through the house — into the woods, any- 
 where; but, hang it all! I had not strength to stand, 
 much less to run! There I sat like an idiot, until I 
 pulled myself together, and rushed off to you. But I 
 will follow her, poor innocent little thing; if I die for 
 it, I will! She came to me. Perhaps she will speak 
 to me. That coachman said she called to people in 
 the woods. Brutes! Why did they not answer? By 
 Jove, I will! If that olive-skinned party, the Marquis, 
 has anything to do with it, I'll — I'll— damn it— I'll 
 horse-whip him before his own servants."
 
 120 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "Frederick, you are a noodle! Just now it was all 
 terror, now it is all revenge. Oblige me by at least 
 respecting the name of my friend, the Marquis, until 
 you have anything definite to accuse him of. Your 
 language is exceedingly painful to me. The Marquis 
 is as honourable and high-minded a man as God ever 
 created. If you have really seen anything supernatural 
 — I don't mean to offend you, but I believe Filippo's 
 story was in your head, and that you dreamed you 
 saw something." 
 
 At this a loud and indignant snort from Fred. 
 
 " — Never mind, that is my opinion. The girl, 
 Gigia, is said to haunt the woods, not the villa, re- 
 member. Whatever you decide to do — and I am sure 
 I have no power to restrain you — avoid remark or ob- 
 sei"vation. That there is some story about, connected 
 with this place, is clear. What foundation there is for 
 it is not at all so. At any rate, it must be a painful 
 subject. Now, pray, go back quietly to your room; or, 
 if you are afraid, lie down beside me on this bed." 
 
 "Thank you. Uncle," said Frederick, much molli- 
 fied. "You are very kind, but I will not disturb you. 
 It was the first fright, and that infernal driver's stories 
 down in the ilex-wood that upset me. Now, I give 
 you my word, I would sacrifice all I possess" — (mean- 
 ing a tooth-pick and a boot-jack) — "to see her once 
 more." 
 
 "Well, Frederick, I am glad you take the ghost so 
 heroically. I daresay it won't come back again. They 
 never do." 
 
 "I only wish it would," was his answer. 
 
 "Mind, if you cannot sleep, come to me."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 12 1 
 
 "All right, uncle! I don't care to sleep — Good- 
 night." 
 
 Again my door closed; again I was left to my own 
 reflections. 
 
 Far, very far, were they from taking the light tone 
 I had adopted with Frederick. It was deep into the 
 night before I closed my eyes.
 
 122 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I WAS awoke early in the morning by the persistent 
 sunshine. Like a conqueror, deriding all barriers, it 
 forced itself into the room. 
 
 I rose and unfastened one of the windows. The 
 fresh morning air pushed both the sashes open, and 
 an odour of countless sweets rushed in, along with the 
 song of birds and the chirrup of insects. 
 
 As I leaned out, a more laughing prospect never 
 gladdened the heart of man. 
 
 What a contrast to the gloomy picture I had made 
 to myself last night of my friend's abode. Last night! 
 I felt as if it had never been. Surely nothing but a 
 dream — a nightmare — from which I had awakened! 
 
 Before me, in the softest tints of blue, shading 
 into lilac, uprose a mighty mountain. Not a speck of 
 mist, not a cloud of vapour shrouded the crystalline 
 outline of its double summits. From the position I 
 knew that it must be Monte Amiata, the highest Apen- 
 nine between Umbria and Rome. 
 
 A vast, undulating plain lay beneath. In the near 
 distance, lines of hills ridged upwards like furrowsj 
 dotted with innumerable white homesteads, each with 
 its little cane-brake and group of cypress. Villages 
 there were also, thinly scattered — for it is a mountain 
 region — dyed brown with the sun, and still browner 
 
 1
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 123 
 
 churches, with tall, open campanili and small burghs, 
 half-castle, half-tower, perched on elevated knolls. 
 
 Further away to the left, backing the range of the 
 Chianti hills, still wrapped in deep shadows, lay a 
 wild, volcanic region, terminating in lines of defiant- 
 looking mountains, among which I guessed that Perugia 
 and Cortona lay nestled. And behind a certain low 
 ridge of barren hills in the same direction, well to the 
 left, the lake of Thrasymene must be hidden. 
 
 Immediately in front, a dark cincture of forest 
 divided the lands of the Marquis from the plain, and 
 shut in the plateau on which the villa stands. A 
 glorious mantle — one sheet of myrtle-green — on which 
 each evergreen leaf glittered resplendent. 
 
 Great fleecy clouds hovered over the mountains, 
 and, minutely mapped out, before me lay the sym- 
 metrical garden, where we had rested last night in the 
 moonlight; the gravel walks, with their trim border of 
 orange-trees, bristling cacti, and the silvery fronds of 
 pampas-grass — statues and vases marking the angles; 
 the fountains bubbling among the flowers in a music 
 of their own, to the joy of shoals of gold-fish floating 
 underneath. 
 
 Little gusts of warm air went and came, bearing 
 fragile petals. Birds twittered under the roofs, and 
 every now and then a hurried rush of wings told that 
 the swallows were departing. 
 
 Up to the verge of the lofty iron gates which we 
 had passed last night, and in which 1 recognised the 
 fine iron-work for which Siena is renowned, the ilex- 
 trees came stealthily creeping. 
 
 How sad is a net-work of dark branches against a 
 brilliant sky. Specially in the morning, when the day
 
 124 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 is young and all nature gleeful. The dark leaves and 
 interlacing branches rose up ominous. I knew them 
 but too well. They came to me as a terror of the 
 night, dimly remembered — and the avenue by which 
 I mounted to the house, with its fantastic border of 
 clipped hedges and lofty statues, leading down to a 
 steep declivity, to re-appear again on a distant summit, 
 where a colossal statue of Hercules seemed to touch 
 the sky, 
 
 I was wondering what o'clock it was — for in the 
 confusion of last night I had forgotten to wind up my 
 watch — when the sound of voices caught my ear, com- 
 ing from the right-hand corner of the house. I moved 
 to another window. 
 
 One of the two voices I instantly recognised as 
 that of Filippo, our driver. He was just under me. I 
 knew him by the cock of his hat and the shock of 
 sunburnt yellow hair at the back of his head. 
 
 The other voice must belong to the gardener, for 
 I could make out a figure with a blue apron and 
 tucked-up sleeves. Beneath, in a kind of court, sacks 
 of charcoal lay piled up against a wall, and there was 
 a cart, to which oxen were yoked; at the bottom of a 
 hill, a black-skinned charcoal-burner, with a red face 
 and curious eyes peering out under his grimy cap, 
 passing to and fro. 
 
 I could see that he was making little attempts to 
 attract the attention of the two men under me, wiping 
 his mouth with his sleeve as a preliminary, but to no 
 avail. 
 
 Filippo and the gardener had settled themselves 
 with their backs to the wall, and went on talking. 
 
 "Is that man a spy, that he hangs about so?"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I 2$ 
 
 asked Filippo, pointing with his thumb to the char- 
 coal-burner, slowly descending to his cart. 
 
 ^'■Chi lo sa?" was the answer. "It is well to be 
 careful here. But I cannot move further off and leave 
 my wine-barrels. The steward thinks I am cleaning 
 them." A grin. 
 
 "It is well to do no work, and get paid all the 
 same," Filippo responds. "But if you were to offer 
 me a month's wages, I would not come to this hole of 
 Satan again." 
 
 He paused to light a pipe. 
 
 The sound of Filippo's voice vividly recalled to me 
 all that had passed last night under the Satyr. Sud- 
 denly the fair face of Nature seemed to pale— the 
 great circle of ilex trees to rise up large and dark 
 like a wall— the network of branches to bristle against 
 the sky, bringing to me an undefined sense of misery 
 and suspense. 
 
 Again the voices, 
 
 "Achilles!" says Filippo, addressing the gardener, 
 in the pauses of his pipe, "you see the last of me 
 here. No money will bring me this way again. I 
 never closed an eye last night, for fear of what I 
 might see." 
 
 "I sleep well enough," is Achilles' grave rejoinder, 
 
 "So do I," puts in the charcoal-burner, who had 
 returned unperceived, and was handling the pile of 
 sacks on the ground, "when the frost does not bite 
 me on the side off the fire." 
 
 The charcoal-burner's remark not being attended 
 to, he strode silently towards the ox-cart, two sacks 
 upon his back. 
 
 "Why does that fellow plague us?" asks Filippo,
 
 126 TIIE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 looking after him with disdain. ^'Cospeiiol I tremble 
 as if in an ague! An old gentleman with a fat face 
 and a big stomach" (this was myself, evidently — com- 
 plimentary!) "and a young lunatic with him, who en- 
 gaged me in the Square at Siena, made me relate the 
 whole story of the Donnina last night, just under the 
 Satiro. Per Bacco! If I am not well paid for that 
 piece of work, my name is not Filippo Sanguerra." 
 
 "Speak lower," says Achilles, pointing significantly 
 to the house; "where our master is the very walls 
 have ears." 
 
 "Your master!" rejoins Filippo, in a tone of deep 
 disgust; "leave him to his friend, the devil. I wonder 
 he has not fetched him home long ago! A thousand 
 years seem to have passed since I saw his nasty, 
 yellow face in the moonlight! I made horns at him, 
 Achilles, when he turned my way. He has the evil 
 eye, that Marquis, if ever a man had!" 
 
 "Ah, our Marquis," replies cautious Achilles, 
 "doubtless his Excellency has his reasons." 
 
 "■Altrol why else should a rich gentleman live 
 here?" 
 
 Filippo's hand waved contemptuously towards the 
 villa and its mass of wings and out-buildings, in ap- 
 pearance like a small town. 
 
 "If the Marquis believed in God and the saints, 
 he would inhabit his palace at Siena. The dust must 
 be thick on those floors." 
 
 "Yes, unless ghosts dance there," hisses out 
 Achilles spitefully. 
 
 Again the charcoal-burner approaches to fetch 
 more sacks, hesitates for a moment, facing the two 
 men, then smiles and nods his head, but as neither of
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 127 
 
 them took the smallest notice of him, he turned away, 
 whistling a tune, and slowly proceeded to charge him- 
 self with another load. 
 
 "Has your wife seen the ghost of Gigia lately?" 
 asks Filippo suddenly. 
 
 At the mention of Gigia's name, I listen with all 
 my ears ; I cannot, as I have said, see the faces of the 
 men, being directly over them; but I notice a certain 
 intonation in Filippo's voice, as of one who advances 
 cautiously on what he feels to be delicate ground. 
 
 Before he answers, Achilles' brown hand is bur- 
 rowing deeply among his stiff head of hair. 
 
 At last, slowly: "My wife! why my wife? Amina 
 is as another." 
 
 The stolid Achilles is evidently determined not to 
 compromise himself. 
 
 "But the Marquis sees her," he adds hastily, as if 
 conscious of having struck on a safe vein for satis- 
 fying his friend's curiosity. 
 
 "The Marquis sees her often; then he has his fits. 
 No one dares go near him then but Narcissus. He 
 sees, too, they say, all the spirits of the people mur- 
 dered here by the Cardinal." 
 
 Again Achilles takes counsel by burying his fingers 
 in his matted hair. 
 
 "But for the bread and the wine for the children, 
 and our little patch of olives and chestnuts, who would 
 stay? Beppo, the tin-smith, saw Gigia last Tuesday, 
 with his own eyes." 
 
 "The devil!" exclaims Filippo suddenly. 
 
 "Hush! if you scream so I will tell you nothing," 
 says Achilles resolutely. 
 
 The return of the charcoal-burner from the ox-cart
 
 128 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 closes his lips. Again he stopped before the two men, 
 again smiled and nodded in vain, then, with a shrug 
 of his square shoulders, proceeded to load his sacks, 
 giving one of Achilles' wine-barrels a vicious kick as 
 he did so. As soon as his back is turned, the voices 
 resume : 
 
 "It was about eight o'clock in the evening, when 
 Beppo came along the road. The Marquis was stand- 
 ing in the road covered with a large cloak, and beside 
 him a thin, glistening figure with eyes that burnt into 
 your head. Down by the Satyr it was, and full of 
 black shadows. Beppo, who is a prudent man, and 
 dreads the devil, ran as fast as his legs could carry 
 him down the hill. If the Marquis had seen Beppo 
 he would have cursed him, and he would have dried 
 up like a leaf!" 
 
 (My poor noble-hearted Anzano. This is the way 
 the wretches who live on your bounty speak of you. 
 I should dearly have liked to drop a ton or two of 
 lead on the heads of these two scoundrels.) 
 
 "What would you expect?" puts in Filippo, "when 
 a man dares not approach the Blessed Saci-ament!" 
 
 "Ah, amico, I could tell you a great deal about 
 that — the Blessed Sacrament and the Chapel," and 
 the backs of two sun-burnt hands went up into 
 the air. 
 
 "Tell me, tell me, my own Achilles!" whines 
 Filippo, in a falsetto voice. "The best bottle of wine 
 I have, and a ride through the town of Siena the next 
 fete-day, for the Sora Amina are yours, if you do." 
 
 The gardener, evidently a man of few words, but 
 those to the purpose, hesitated. Perhaps only for lack 
 of that power of language the lowest Italian generally
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 12g 
 
 possesses, perhaps feeling he is embarking on a 
 dangerous course. 
 
 "Consider the friendship of our families," urges 
 Filippo, hanging on apparently to his neck. "Recount 
 to me about the opening of the chapel. I am dying 
 to know!" 
 
 The chapel! Here is a new vein of mystery! 
 The ilex-wood; the old factory; Frederick's room; now 
 the chapel. Whither am I drifting? 
 
 No more could be then said, for the charcoal- 
 burner, with the same, wistful look on his face, again 
 stood before them. He has been away longer this 
 time. The more sacks he carries, the more difficult 
 it is to him to load the cart. I had seen him strug- 
 gling to get each one into its place in rows, and well- 
 balanced, so as not to weigh too heavily upon the 
 necks of the oxen — waiting with closed eyes, the pic- 
 ture of patient toil. 
 
 Now he fumbled among his dirty pockets and 
 brings out a black pipe, which he twirls in his grimy 
 fingers, casting an appealing look at the two friends. 
 Evidently he is debating with himself whether he may 
 venture to ask them for a match, but as neither speak 
 nor move, the poor fellow turns on his heel and goes 
 back to his sacks (there are but two or three left), 
 lifts them slowly on his back, and, patient and labo- 
 rious as his o-vvn grey beasts, slowly descends towards 
 his cart. 
 
 In a few minutes the wheels are rumbling down 
 the hill — the bells of the oxen sounding in the silent 
 morn. Now he has turned a corner and is gone — but 
 the echo of the bells sound farther and farther off, 
 
 The Red Cardinal, 9
 
 130 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 until — fainter and fainter — they die away among the 
 trees. 
 
 "It was the month of May," Achilles begins. "Our 
 Marquis had quarrelled with the rector about some 
 altar furniture, so Don Antonio was to say mass. That 
 Don Antonio!" A pause here, and much combating 
 by Achilles among his hair. "He knows much. 
 
 "When the chapel was full and all the peasants 
 kneeling (our Marquis kneeling too, before his seat, 
 with the coronet on the back. He looked, that day, 
 as if all his wholesome blood was turned to gall and 
 poisoning him), and Don Antonio just raising the Host, 
 there came such a clap of thunder, he w^ould have let 
 the Santissimo fall, if little Luigi, Cosimo's child, had 
 not been sharp and caught him by the arm." 
 
 "Diamine!" from Filippo. "Is that all?" 
 
 "No!" Evidently Achilles cannot get on. He 
 labours with his words, and twists his hands among 
 his hair. Something very like an oath escapes him 
 now. "If you hurry me," he says. "I will not say a 
 word." 
 
 A volley of excuses from Filippo and a fresh start. 
 
 "When the very reverend Don Antonio had re- 
 covered, put away the Santissimo into its box, and 
 was proceeding to repeat the Agnus Dei, the Marquis 
 had gone." 
 
 "His evil conscience!" pvit in Filippo. "Before 
 the Santissimo -even the devil must confess. I am 
 wise," he adds thoughtfully. "I know many things." 
 
 "That night, very late," — Achilles is now fairly 
 started in his narrative — "Adamo, o\xx fait ore (steward) 
 looked out of the window before he went to bed, to 
 see what the sky promised for cutting the barley in
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I3I 
 
 the morning, when the figure of a young priest glided 
 down the steps of the old factory, where they hang 
 the grapes to dry because no one will sleep there." 
 
 "Yes, yes — I know," from Filippo. "Because of 
 the donnma/" 
 
 "Adamo said he saw the young priest as plainly 
 as I see you, Filippo — tall, in a black robe, and very 
 pale, carrying in his hand something that glistened. 
 
 "A ring — a ring!" suggests the irrepressible Filippo. 
 "Gigia's ring, with a big diamond in it! Her marriage 
 ring; Perhaps it was forgotten in the old house." 
 
 "I don't know," is Achilles' stolid answer. "I 
 heard nothing of a ring or of a marriage. The figure 
 crossed the grass among the statues and the orange- 
 trees, its shadow spreading over miles and miles of 
 wood, Adamo wondering, for the key was safe in his 
 pocket, because of the grapes. Then it melted into 
 the earth, close by the chapel door, and Adamo 
 dressed himself and went down, but he found no- 
 thing. 
 
 "Next day, as he was new to the place, he came 
 to me in the garden, and asked what it all meant." 
 
 "Wonderful, my Achilles!" returns Filippo, rubbing 
 
 his hands. "Truly, at Sant' Agata the devil does 
 
 what he likes." 
 
 ***** 
 
 Now the men emerge from the shelter of the wall, 
 and Filippo takes out a large silver watch and looks 
 as it. 
 
 "Seven o'clock! Per Bacco! Why don't that old 
 fool of an Englishman get up and give me my money? 
 Time flies in good company! Come, my Achilles, lend 
 me a hand to rub down my horses. They must be 
 
 9'
 
 132 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 looking for me this long time. Horses are much better 
 than men," observes Filippo sententiously. "They 
 don't stab and poison like these Gonzagos, nor do 
 their ghosts appear. Sa?ita Maria! How I long to 
 be back at Siena — in the rattle of the streets." 
 
 With one arm on Achilles' shoulder, they moved 
 off into the outbuildings, Filippo's voice audible to 
 the last: 
 
 "Not a cup of coffee to be had, nor a crust of 
 bread! Infernal abode of Satan! Why did I come?"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 33 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The first thing I did after Filippo and the gar- 
 dener had disappeared, was to ring the bell. 
 
 That anyone should answer it in a house so enorm- 
 ous, or rather that a bell should have the power to 
 vibrate to such a distance, seemed incredible. After 
 a little delay, however, I actually heard footsteps in 
 the far distance. Gradually they sounded along the 
 gallery, and at last a knock at my door introduced an 
 intense-eyed young man, with curly hair and a cheer- 
 ful countenance, carrying a cup of coffee on a silver 
 tray. 
 
 "Do me the favour," I said in Italian, thankfully 
 accepting the coffee, "to find out the driver, Filippo 
 by name, who brought me from Siena last night. Give 
 him this money from me, and tell him to leave Sant' 
 Agata instantly. If he refuses, or makes any difficulty 
 whatever, assure him I shall at once report him and 
 his sayings to the Marquis. Do you understand?" 
 
 "Perfectly, signor," replied the young man, be- 
 coming more cheerful and intense-eyed — indeed, ab- 
 solutely beaming with cheerfulness as he saluted me 
 — "The Excellency shall be obeyed. Has the Ex- 
 cellency any further orders for Narcissus? I am Nar- 
 cissus, at your service." 
 
 "None, thanks."
 
 134 '^^^^ ^^^ CARDINAL. 
 
 Then the door closed, shutting out Narcissus, who 
 retired with a graceful bow. 
 
 I may here mention that after the lapse of a few 
 minutes, I was rejoiced by hearing the sound of wheels, 
 rapidly driving away on the further side of the garden. 
 It was a real relief to me to know that Filippo had 
 departed. 
 
 Leisurely continuing my toilet, I felt, on the whole, 
 rather ashamed of having listened to the conversation 
 of this fellow and his friend. Curiosity is my weak- 
 ness; I do not deny it. I was tempted, and I fell. 
 After all, what had I heard? Nothing substantially 
 more than I knew before, mixed up with absurd 
 stories, and low, scurrilous abuse of my dear friend. 
 
 In the meantime, I surrendered myself to the 
 magic of the sunshine, giving even my fat cheeks, as 
 I contemplate myself in the glass, an aureole of bright- 
 ness. 
 
 Sounds of life now rose up from below, telling that 
 the household was astir. Servants cross and recross 
 the gravel paths of the garden, from the colonnades 
 of the portico to the entrance of the fattore's house. 
 
 Presently the fattore himself appears, in the person 
 of a well-dressed man, with an air of deputy-master- 
 ship not to be mistaken. A large white mastiff follows 
 at his heels, exciting the jealousy of a minute rat- 
 terrier, with half a tail, barking on the threshold. The 
 fattore dispenses his favours impartially between the 
 dogs. The mastiff licks his hands, and makes dashes 
 at him perilous to his equilibrium. The rat-terrier 
 gambols confidingly between his legs. 
 
 Adamo — this must be Adamo, of whom I have just 
 heard — takes all in good part; quiets the mastiff,
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 135 
 
 caresses the terrier, and strides off, at last, through the 
 iron gates, the dogs after him. 
 
 Then three beggars, a man, an old woman, and a 
 boy, with naked feet, and barely decent as to clothes, 
 come up by the grand entrance, through the iron 
 gates. The old woman, a coarse white cloth upon her 
 grisly hair, boldly leads the way. It is well the dogs 
 are gone. The man, a poor, fever-stricken wretch, on 
 whom death has set his seal, and the poor, hungry- 
 looking lad, with even less clothes than the other two 
 (I can see portions of his skin at not rare intervals), 
 are much more shy. But the old woman pushes on, 
 and seats them and herself upon a stone bench under 
 the balustrade, where they remain so motionless, one 
 might take them for statues, until they turn their heads 
 as the door of the factory opens, and a comely matron, 
 evidently the steward's wife, calls out: "Filomena!" 
 when another half-naked person speedily presents her- 
 self, in the shape of a girl, very swarthy about the 
 face and neck, with long, lanky legs made for run- 
 ning. 
 
 At a sign from her mistress, vs'ho really, as I look 
 down on her, is a very enticing dame — although no- 
 thing she wears seems to fit her, and only hangs on 
 by pins — Filomena vanishes. 
 
 Then, as she stands contemplating the beggars, 
 who never move, she is gradually surrounded by scores 
 of poultry, some flying, some running, some striding in 
 their haste. A flock of peacocks trailing gorgeous 
 tails, the hens meekly pecking as they go, strutting 
 turkeys, speckled guinea-fowl with red ears, and hens 
 and chickens of every form and breed, the bigger 
 ones racing the little ones, who fall upon the ground.
 
 I ^6 THE RED CARDDJAL. 
 
 
 
 Now Filomena, on her long legs, is back again, 
 bearing a wooden platter with huge slices of coarse 
 bread, and a bulky flask of red wine, which the 
 steward's wife proceeds to divide between the beg- 
 gars. 
 
 The sick man has dozed off on the bench, and is 
 nodding painfully. The old woman wakes him by a 
 rude shake, at which he starts and casts a reproachful 
 glance, while she, for answer, pours a draught of red 
 wine down his throat, bringing a faint flush of colour 
 to his emaciated cheeks. The sick man cannot eat, 
 but the boy and the old woman can, plentifully. The 
 thick slices of bread disappear to the last crumb, and 
 are washed down by wine. 
 
 I believe they would be eating still, if, when the 
 dish was cleared and the flask emptied, the steward's 
 wife had not made them a sort of rough curtsey, and 
 driving back the troop of screeching poultry — per- 
 severingly pecking at her shoes — held out her hand to 
 help the sick man — who rises with a groan — gently 
 leading him out of the iron gates (the old woman and 
 the boy following), and with a nod wishing them good 
 day. Upon which all kiss her fat hand, the sick man 
 making a feeble endeavour to raise his cap. 
 
 Still engaged with my shaving at the open win- 
 dow, I next perceive a troop of goats descend from 
 the mountains to be milked. They are quite alone, 
 nibbling from side to side, and, as if they know their 
 business, halt before the gates, until the great mastiff, 
 who has returned, engages in a free fight with the he- 
 goat, a hoary patriarch with twisted horns and matted 
 hair; the mastiff getting much the worst of it and back- 
 ing before the goat, until the steward's arrival decides
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 137 
 
 any doubt as to the issue of the combat. He igno- 
 miniously kicks the mastiff, and carefully leads in the 
 does, to the infinite disgust of the veteran, who, find- 
 ing himself shut out, paces up and down the road, 
 butting at imaginary foes. 
 
 A flock of lambs next present themselves before 
 the grand entrance, as honoured guests. Just clipped, 
 they are as white as the first flakes of snow. A 
 shepherd-boy, of whose features nothing whatever can 
 be seen, by reason of his hair, drives them gently for- 
 ward, waving an olive branch. The docile creatures 
 cluster round him when he stops, and lick his hands. 
 
 As the does vanished inside the gates, so vanish 
 the lambs. Then loaded waggons come lumbering 
 down, drawn by soft-eyed, grey oxen; a red fringe 
 dangling across their eyes; and light carts drawn by 
 diminutive ponies, carrying men much bigger than 
 themselves; all in turn to be caught up, and hidden 
 in the depths of the ilex-wood. 
 
 Just as I withdraw my eyes from the window, to 
 give the finishing touches to a dark blue cravat, and 
 to brush back such hair as kind nature still entrusts 
 to my care, a distant clock, the first clock I have yet 
 heard, strikes nine. 
 
 I open my door. The gallery, with its row of win- 
 dows, and gay, trellised frescoes covering both wall 
 and ceiling — is bathed in sun. I see the arched door 
 with curtains, mentioned by Fred, as leading into more 
 distant corridors, but the curtains are closely drawn, 
 and I am afraid to meddle with them. 
 
 Opposite to me, are the two doors he described, 
 leading into the two rooms he occupies. One door is 
 open; perhaps Fred may be there.
 
 138 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 I peep in. The room is empty. Never surely 
 was anything more unlike the scene of a ghostly visi- 
 tation. The walls are hung with pink paper, muslin 
 curtains enshroud the windows, and a gay chintz covers 
 the furniture. 
 
 I decide at once, being in a thoroughly lively and 
 hopeful mood, under the influence of the splendid day 
 and the general picturesqueness, that Frederick must 
 have been dreaming. 
 
 "One of his fool's tricks!" I say to myself, com- 
 placently, as I look round. 
 
 Now I address myself, with due caution, to the 
 descent of the perpendicular stairs — a feat requiring 
 much sustained attention on the part of a novice, not 
 desiring to break his neck. 
 
 On the landing of the first floor, stands the 
 Marquis. Beside him a black-robed ecclesiastic, 
 middle-aged and thin, whom I instantly recognise as 
 the mahogany-skinned curate who, the day before, 
 carried the Host in the procession of St. John. 
 
 As soon as he was aware of my presence, the 
 Marquis dismissed the priest, who, bowing low, de- 
 scended into the hall, and awaited me on the broad 
 landing. Proceeding cautiously, I had time to note 
 how worn and ill he looks by day-light. Either he 
 has slept badly, or not at all. The dark rings round 
 his eyes might have been painted. He greeted me, 
 however, with his accustomed warmth, and again ex- 
 pressing his delight at seeing me under his roof. 
 
 As a rule, I hate any kind of display of feeling 
 between men, but there was a manly tenderness about 
 Gonzago, that was quite irresistible. 
 
 Anxiously he informed himself how I had passed
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 139 
 
 the night — if I had seen Signer Stanley? How he 
 had also slept? All this with an unaccountable 
 earnestness. 
 
 Having satisfied himself on these points, he opened 
 one of the four doors on the landing, and, taking my 
 hand, led me — (some reminiscence, I suppose, of the 
 way we wandered about the meadows at school) — into 
 a spacious ante-room, hung with pictures, on a back- 
 ground of red brocade. 
 
 I especially noticed four full-length portraits, some- 
 what in shadow, hanging on opposite walls. 
 
 As he was passing on rapidly I detained him. 
 
 "Family pictures of the Gonzagos?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, yes," was his hurried rejoinder, endeavouring 
 to lead me on. 
 
 But I was obstinate. 
 
 "The Gonzago Pope, of course?" and I pointed to 
 a pale, hollow-cheeked pontiff, with a disproportioned 
 nose, robed in white, seated on a throne, behind which 
 rose the dome of St. Peter's. 
 
 The Marquis assented, and was proceeding with 
 nervous haste, when I again paused. 
 
 "Cardinal Flavio?" I asked, as my eyes rested on 
 the form of a majestic-looking prelate, in the prime of 
 life, standing before the sculptured facade of a palace, 
 his scarlet robes so arranged as to display a faultless 
 foot and ancle. 
 
 While I gazed transfixed at the image of the man 
 whose crimes had wrought such bitter wrong on his 
 descendants, a sudden spasm passed over my friend's 
 face; standing with his back towards the picture, his 
 hand grasping the lock of the further door, while he 
 cast an impatient glance at me.
 
 140 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "You appear to be deeply interested, Lucius," he 
 said at last — that ever-ready suspicion getting the 
 better of him. "May I ask what you know of the 
 Cardinal, that you are studying his face so intently?" 
 
 "Nothing — nothing," rejoined I, ashamed of my 
 own falsehood. 
 
 "Then pray come with me. The other pictures 
 need not detain you," and he opened the door of the 
 adjoining room, 
 
 (I really was obliged to force myself from that pic- 
 ture. It was exercising a fascination over me I cannot 
 describe.) 
 
 "This is the saloon," said he, taking a long breath, 
 as if evidently relieved. "The first in the suite of 
 the state apartments." 
 
 "How superb!" Avas my involuntary exclamation. 
 "And all this is yours, Anzano?" 
 
 His answer was a sigh. 
 
 "Well, you are a philosopher!" I exclaimed. "A 
 philosopher or a cynic." 
 
 "I am not a cynic. I wish to God I were!" 
 
 The walls of the saloon — or hall, indeed, so vast 
 were its proportions — were painted in the gaudy school 
 of Raphael Mengs, or Luca Giordano. Historic scenes 
 of groups and figures, as large as life, standing out from 
 a varied background of sea and forest, city and plain. 
 Something more brilliant and striking than tapestry, 
 but with equal vigour of outline and gorgeousness of 
 tone. Mirrors framed in richest arabesques of dead 
 gold, divided the frescoes into panels. 
 
 The vaulted ceiling, separated from the walls by 
 a heavy cornice, broken by supporting figures, also in 
 dead gold, was ablaze with gods and goddesses, who,
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I4I 
 
 freed from the restraints of earthly garments, were 
 joyously ascending into a central glory of saffron and 
 purple clouds. 
 
 The furniture, of the same date as the wall 
 frescoes, was ponderous with carved work. A long 
 table of carved ebony ran down the centre, laden with 
 a display of exquisite specimes of Faenza, Majolica 
 and Gubbio ware, tazze, Raphael plates and plaques, 
 fine jewelled chasings of the Bellini school, antique 
 bronze statuettes, and open cases of gems and coins. 
 
 A cool, half-light from the outer green shutters 
 cast a softened tint on the clashing splendours, also 
 toned down by a dark parquet floor, heaving door 
 hangings and window draperies. 
 
 The Marquis met my amazed eyes with a weary 
 smile. 
 
 "All this is suitable enough for a villa," he re- 
 marked carelessly. "You should see my collection at 
 Siena! That is worth looking at! You would not 
 care for any of these trifles then." 
 
 "And these trifles, as you call them — do they not 
 delight your eyes? Why, Anzano, I should spend my 
 life in turning them over." 
 
 As I spoke, I took up an amethyst lying in a satin- 
 lined case, with an exquisite cutting of Hercules and 
 Omphale. Then I lifted a priceless plate, with lovely 
 arabesques encircling the medallion of a Cupid. Next, 
 I lovingly fingered a Gubbio vase, with such an 
 opaline glaze, that it might have left the oven but 
 yesterday. 
 
 "I cared for these things once," was my friend's 
 cold reply. "Now the sight of them distresses me." 
 
 I looked at Anzano as he leaned over the table on
 
 142 THE RED CARDINAL.' 
 
 which my fingers were so busy, to read, if I could, 
 something on his face that might explain his words. 
 He was literally emaciated. Always rather tall, and 
 thin, his clothes now literally hung upon him, as if 
 nothing but bones remained. And how coarse and 
 common these clothes were, too! A rustic cut that 
 would have vulgarised any man less innately distin- 
 guished. And he, too, of all people! Such a petit- 
 inaitre once, no tailor could content him! 
 
 I noted also how feeble and languid were his 
 movements, as he followed me in my rapid dashes at 
 the wonders spread around. What a weight had 
 gathered on his brow, from which the poetic locks of 
 youth had receded! Mental agitation had consumed 
 vitality too visibly to make his face a pleasant study 
 for one who loved him. 
 
 Having exhausted the saloon, I was in the act of 
 drawing aside the tapestry which concealed the door 
 of the next apartment, when I found myself arrested 
 by his arm. 
 
 "Enough, enough, my Lucius! What do all these 
 baubles signify?" 
 
 He gazed into my face with an expression so 
 mournful, that I felt shocked at my inopportune curio- 
 sity. His glance seemed to say: "Knowing what you 
 do, can you allow mere curiosity to over-master you 
 when I am by?" 
 
 I passed my arm affectionately through his, and 
 we paced silently up and down, I doing my best to 
 restrain my vagrant eyes from wandering over the 
 artistic treasures. 
 
 After a while, we paused in our measured walk. 
 He flung open a lofty window, and I saw extended
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1-13 
 
 before me a broad grass terrace, bordered by marble 
 statues, higher than the trees, a continuation indeed 
 of the approach on the further side of the house; and 
 traversing a perpendicular height, a flight of broad 
 precipitous steps, cut through the ilex woods. 
 
 A more stately coup d'ceil never met the eye of 
 man. 
 
 "The 'thousand steps' and the Hermitage," said 
 the Marquis, pointing to a mediaival tower at the 
 summit, dark against the sky, "where twelve Bene- 
 dictine monks live, dependent on our bounty. We 
 must explore these hills together, Lucius, and look at 
 the view from the top of the mountains. The Hermitage 
 is of the middle ages," he added, "when these woods 
 were still unclaimed forest land." 
 
 A heavy sigh followed. 
 
 "To-day I cannot dwell on such matters. The very 
 light of the sun offends me." 
 
 As quickly as he had unbarred the window, he 
 now hastened to close it. 
 
 "What has happened to-day, dear Anzano?" I ven- 
 tured to ask.
 
 144 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "Much," was the reply. "Don Antonio, from whom 
 I parted just before you joined me — you must have 
 seen him on the stairs — has brought me bad news, 
 worse even than I anticipated. My brother" — an in- 
 tense excitement lighted up his eyes, as he named 
 Sigismund, then passed away, and a grey look spread 
 over his face like a pall. 
 
 "I had hoped, Lucius, to have spared you the 
 knowledge of our present disagreement. It lay with 
 Sigismund whether it should be so, or no. I had 
 hoped, after waiting so many years, to enjoy your 
 society in peace. Peace!" he repeated, a bitter smile 
 curling his lips; "what am I saying — peace and I are 
 for ever parted." 
 
 I could see how he struggled before he could 
 bring himself to allude to his brother. 
 
 "Well, what of Sigismund?" I asked. "I must 
 tell you, however, beforehand, he is so handsome I 
 range myself on the side of Sigismund." 
 
 I spoke in jest, but in my friend's excited con- 
 dition all jest was unpalatable. He drew back from 
 me and his dark eyebrows almost met. 
 
 "You are speaking about what you know nothing," 
 he said coldly. "It is not possible that you, my best 
 friend, should support my brother against ine, the 
 head of our house, the guardian of our honour. Let
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 145 
 
 me tell you at once that Sigismund insists on a mar- 
 riage to which I will never consent. I would rather 
 see him dead. I would rather die myself. I will 
 die," he added, in a lower tone, his eyes gathering 
 themselves steadfastly on some distant object, "if that 
 marriage takes place." 
 
 His manner was growing wild, his far-off gaze more 
 and more intense. 
 
 The dread of some hidden terror seemed pressing 
 upon his brain. He made an effort to relieve his 
 agitation by hurrying up and down the room. Midway 
 he stopped, trembling violently. Instinctively I stretched 
 out my arms to support him. As instinctively his 
 troubled head sank on my shoulder. 
 
 Thus we stood in the centre of the darkened 
 saloon, the gems and the treasures, the rare porcelain, 
 the mirrors, and the gold mocking us. 
 
 How I pitied him, the inheritor of this ancestral 
 wealth — a man, in himself pure, unsullied, tender, 
 brave — clinging to me for help! 
 
 What secret lay in the shadows of those dark 
 woods that waved so serenely without? What crime? 
 What horror? 
 
 Can that be justice which demands from him atone- 
 ment for others? Why is he to suffer for his uncle's 
 misdeeds? 
 
 Even while I asked myself this question, the an- 
 swer came to me in the knowledge of his too sensitive 
 nature, shrinking from all suspicion of iniquity. 
 
 The very existence of guilt was disgusting to him. 
 How much more the reality! 
 
 It was enough to uproot the very foundations of 
 
 The Red Cardinal. lO
 
 146 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 his moral being. No wonder he loathed all that he 
 possessed when he esteemed it stained with the price 
 of blood. 
 
 Meanwhile the Marquis, somewhat recovered, gently- 
 extricated himself from my arms. 
 
 "My reluctance to speak must seem strange to you, 
 Lucius." 
 
 '•It does, it does, most extraordinary." 
 
 "I would tell you anything about myself. Anything. 
 If I believed myself guilty of any sin I would confess 
 it to you. Any sin that involved myself alone. I be- 
 lieve you are the only person in the world who loves 
 me." 
 
 The tears were in his eyes. I mutely responded; 
 I could not form an intelligible word. Something rose 
 in my throat to prevent it. I could only wring his 
 hand — He understood me. 
 
 "But I cannot reveal even to you secrets that con- 
 cern the honour of my name. What those secrets en- 
 tail must be borne in silence. Lucius, ask me nothing. 
 I implore you, ask me nothing. But do not reproach 
 me." 
 
 "Reproach you! Oh, my friend, if you knew how 
 I pity you." 
 
 "Yes; it has come to that, Anzano Gonzago is an 
 object of pity" — a groan escaped him — "Oh, that I 
 could die! How often have I been tempted to end 
 my miserable life and be at rest. But the cowardice 
 of the act, the confession of defeat, the base want of 
 fortitude to support with dignity my appointed lot, all 
 this has stopped me. No, I will not consent to shorten 
 my life, however loathsome tliat life may be. 
 
 "But this is all beside the mark," he added, notic-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 147 
 
 ing the distress depicted in my countenance. "Vv'e 
 were speaking of Sigismund." 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "What is Sigismund to me compared with you, 
 Anzano?" 
 
 "Do not grieve for me, my Lucius. Think how 
 brief life is — how soon death comes to us. If I die in 
 the struggle, what matter? A Gonzago more or less — 
 a forgotten name — a funeral dirge — a monument " 
 
 "Do not speak so, Anzano, I cannot bear it," I 
 cried, seizing his hands in both of mine. 
 
 "But Sigismund will live," he exclaimed, too much 
 excited to notice my distress. "Sigismund is younger 
 — he has never known care. I have guarded him. 
 Sigismund will bear our name with splendour. He is 
 the last of our house, on his marriage the very existence 
 of it depends. Sigismund must be free. No shadow 
 must rest upon his life. No mystery tarnish the fair 
 fame of his consort. 
 
 "But he defies me! — he insists on a marriage. 
 Oh, God!" he exclaimed, breaking off, and clasping 
 his hands. "Such a marriage! I cannot think of it 
 — I cannot bear it!" 
 
 "Where is Sigismund?" I asked. 
 
 "I do not know; I have not seen him since last 
 niafht. I believe he has left the house. In this he 
 has done well. One roof cannot cover us both until 
 he submits." 
 
 "I doubt your brother's submitting to any one in 
 the matter of his marriage. He will strangely falsify 
 my opinion of him if he does." 
 
 ''Hemtcsff" rejoined the Marquis, vehemently. "He 
 shall. But at this moment he is outraging all propriety. 
 
 lO*
 
 148 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Can you believe that he has dared, without my know- 
 ledge, to communicate with Don Antonio? Has actually 
 given him legal notice of his intended marriage, and 
 called on him peremptorily to perform the ceremony? 
 Don Antonio came this morning to apprise me. Under 
 the new law, he dare not refuse. The very day is 
 fixed." 
 
 "Who is the lady?" I asked. 
 
 If a bomb had burst between us, Anzano could not 
 have looked more appalled. 
 
 "Yes, Anzano, I ask you, who is the lady? How 
 can I judge of the position in which you are placed, 
 unless I know who and what she is?" 
 
 He turned from me with a fever of impatience. 
 
 "If I told you her name — what then?" 
 
 He had had time to recover from the shock of my 
 sudden question. The hard look on his face, and the 
 nervous twitching of his hands, betrayed to me that 
 he both dreaded to answer and would avoid doing so, 
 if possible. 
 
 "I ought not to have mentioned this marriage 
 to you at all, Lucius, but your curiosity overcame 
 me." 
 
 I listened to this, and to what followed, feeling 
 that he was only putting me off. 
 
 "Your English ideas differ so totally from ours," 
 he went on saying, in a hurried voice, keeping his 
 eyes averted from my gaze. 
 
 "In the matter of marriage, Italians are bound by 
 much more conventional rules than govern you. A 
 certain outward decorum must be observed in all 
 things; the measure of that decorum is purely arbitrary. 
 Add to these considerations, the secret history of many
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 149 
 
 of our noblest families; the hatreds, feuds, rivalries- 
 some hidden crime, perhaps." 
 
 His voice lowered, and for an instant he eyed me 
 suspiciously. 
 
 "Sometimes it is want of revenue to support ^ a 
 great name. Sometimes the necessity of a special 
 alliance to obtain political power, or hereditary ag- 
 grandisement. Marriage with us takes the form of a 
 compact beneficial to both parties. The enticements 
 of passion, and the vulgar sensibilities of the common 
 herd, are alien to our manners; we choose our mis- 
 tresses for love — our wives to be the mothers of our 
 children," 
 
 "My dear Marquis!" I exclaimed — I felt I had 
 given him ample time for explanation — "you have not 
 yet answered my question. The lady's name is still 
 unknown to me." 
 
 Morbid curiosity, bred by all the tales I had heard, 
 was getting the better of me. I was indignant at the 
 idea of remaining in my friend's house at such a 
 crisis, ignorant of what was passing. 
 
 "The very servants," I added, "know more than I." 
 
 My appeal did at last seem to touch him. 
 
 "Would you force me, Lucius, to act contrary to 
 my judgment?" 
 
 The look of nervous tension on his face had 
 relaxed a little, and he spoke more in the natural 
 tones of his harmonious voice. 
 
 "Remember," I urged, observing this change, "re- 
 member I am willing to go away, if you cannot accord 
 me your confidence." 
 
 A deprecatory movement on his part forbade the 
 possibility of such an idea.
 
 150 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "If I remain you must trust me. It is due to us 
 both. Else " 
 
 "Not go, Lucius. Not in anger." 
 
 He pressed my hand, and a gleam of the sweet 
 boyish look lit up his face for an instant. 
 
 For an instant only; the shadows returned, but the 
 passing coolness between us had vanished. 
 
 "I will tell you what I can," he said, with great 
 hesitation. 
 
 He was debating, I believe, in his own mind how 
 little he should reveal to me. I longed to tell him 
 how much I already knew. 
 
 A painful conviction was each moment forcing itself 
 upon me that much that I had heard was true. 
 
 The gay indifference with which I had thrown off 
 all recollection of last night, with the glorious burst of 
 morning, was again, in its turn, giving place to a 
 settled belief that, in some unfathomable way, the 
 story of the "donnina" Gigia and the Cardinal was at 
 the bottom of all my friend's perplexities. 
 
 And if it were so. 
 
 An appalling vision of what Frederick (who might 
 at any moment appear) would perhaps disclose, in 
 carrying out his threat of discovering the family 
 mystery, rose before me, and turned me cold from 
 head to foot. 
 
 Nothing but an ignominious expulsion from the 
 villa seemed impending. 
 
 Meanwhile the IMarquis, seated in one of the 
 massive chairs, was passing his fingers nervously up 
 and down the edges of the velvet pile, as if debating 
 with himself what to say. 
 
 At last he raised his eyes to mine.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 15 I 
 
 "Remember, Lucius, what I say is wrung from me 
 by your threat of leaving me." 
 
 x^nother pause, and the long, white fingers still 
 working on the velvet. Would he ever speak? At 
 length the words came.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "The marriage of Sigismund has occupied me for 
 years, ever since, indeed, I made up my mind that I 
 should remain single. 
 
 "My own life has been blasted. I am a barren 
 stock from which no green shoot will ever rise to 
 renew the sap of the Gonzagos. 
 
 "Under these circumstances I conceived that / 
 had the right to decide who his consort should be. 
 As in any other case the lady would have been my 
 wife, I reserved to myself the right of selection for 
 him." 
 
 I shook my head at this argument, but said no- 
 thing. 
 
 "That was my view. In speaking to Sigismund I 
 never concealed it. 
 
 "He raised no objection — quite the reverse. He is, 
 as you see, much younger than I am. From my habits 
 of life and premature gravity of disposition, our rela- 
 tions have hitherto been more those of a father and 
 son than of brother and brother. 
 
 "Still there was harmony. Rarely a word of dis- 
 cussion troubled our intercourse. 
 
 "How could I imagine that the one act of his life 
 on which the existence of our family depends should 
 be snatched from my control? Nothing had prepared 
 me."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 153 
 
 "Had Sigismund any other attachment?" I asked. 
 
 "As far as I knew, no. He spent several winters 
 in Rome. He was well "-^.-ived, especially by the 
 ladies. I did not trouble myself with the details of 
 his social successes. 
 
 "I eschew the world — but I distinctly understood 
 that he had formed no serious liaison. 
 
 "Believing that he would obey my desire in mar- 
 riage, as in all else, after much reflection I selected 
 the daughter of a Sienese family, originally Papal and 
 Roman, but transplanted here, as we are, from Mantua, 
 by the possession of large estates. 
 
 "The lady, though nineteen, was still following her 
 education in a convent. Indeed, convent life exercised 
 so deep an influence over her mind (she had shewn 
 some disposition to take the veil) that her family re- 
 solved at once to arrange a suitable alliance." 
 
 "The love of God to be superseded by the love of 
 man — the devil as usual getting the best of the ar- 
 rangement. Eh, Anzano?" 
 
 But the Marquis received, as he always did, my 
 feeble attempts at satire with stern and unsympathetic 
 silence. 
 
 "Knowledge of the lady's tastes pointed her out 
 to me as a fitting partner for Sigismund. So holy a 
 maid would surely develop into a devoted wife and 
 mother." 
 
 "Not at all, Anzano; there you are wrong. You 
 could not make a greater mistake. The reasons you 
 give are sufficient for her becoming independent and 
 worldly. Nothing like restraint to make young women 
 rebellious." 
 
 "That is not my experience," returned the Marquis
 
 154 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 coldly; "in perfect good faith I arranged every detail 
 of the marriage. Sigismund was absent, but expected 
 to return " 
 
 Here, as if dreading to proceed, he moved away 
 from the chair on which he had been seated, and 
 began vaguely to wander about the room; taking up 
 here a tazza, there a bronze statuette; examining a 
 coin, with apparently minute attention, then throwing 
 it down on the table, and moving off to place himself 
 abstractedly before one of the wall-frescoes — a battle 
 scene, the life-sized figures rising against a lurid sunset 
 — thence wandering off to arrange the folds of the 
 door tapestry, gazing blankly before him all the while. 
 
 At last he settled himself against the gilt moulding 
 of one of the mirrors, where he remained with his 
 eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 "What was I saying?" he asked, turning to me 
 with a start. I believe he had forgotten, at the 
 moment, that I was present. 
 
 "You had appointed Sigismund to meet the 
 Sienese lady." 
 
 "Yes, yes," he answered quickly, passing his hand 
 across his brow. "I beg your pardon, Lucius — yes — 
 I remember. Well, concei\-e my indignation. Sigis- 
 mund positively refused even to see her! Such 
 audacity astonished me. I ordered him at once to 
 visit her at Siena. 
 
 "He persisted in not going. Altogether questioned 
 my right to interfere. High words ensued. It was 
 our first quarrel. 
 
 "If he disobeyed me, 1 told lum, he could not re- 
 main in my house. 
 
 "He replied that nothing should move him, for to
 
 THE REl5 CARDINAL. 155 
 
 this house, and to this place, he was bound by a link 
 stroncrer than life. 
 
 "I called upon him peremptorily to inform me 
 what he meant. When he answered me I fell sense- 
 less to the ground." 
 
 The Marquis' hand, which he had stretched out in 
 the eagerness of narration, fell to his side. Then 
 coming close to me, he fixed his deep-set eyes upon 
 me with a look of unutterable appeal. 
 
 "Will you force me to go on?" that look seemed 
 to say. 
 
 Having made up my mind what was right to do, 
 I avoided the appealing glance, and, after a moment, 
 he proceeded, though in a tone so low that I had to 
 strain my ears to catch his meaning. 
 
 "There is a member of our family you have not 
 seen — a helpless child — a girl." Each little phrase 
 seemed dug laboriously out of him. 
 
 "I love her tenderly. I have reared her as a 
 daughter. I am bound to her by stronger ties than 
 those of blood — the ties of honour. Yet our blood 
 flows in her veins. A crime committed in this house 
 links her— and one who has gone before — unalterably 
 to me. To me!" he repeated, shouting out the 
 words, and striking upon his breast. "Do you under- 
 stand? — to me! Blood calls for blood! She is ever 
 before me. She hovers in the air I breathe — im- 
 palpable but real." 
 
 He was growing incoherent. He had sunk down 
 on a chair. His ashen face all the more ghastly from 
 the contrast with the rich purple velvet that covered it. 
 
 Gradually his glazed eyes fixed themselves on the 
 large mirror opposite — fixed themselves with the in-
 
 156 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 tensity of actual vision. Something was there he saw, 
 or thought he saw. 
 
 Words cannot describe my alarm. I rushed to 
 him and caught him as he leant forward. 
 
 "Speak to me — speak, Anzano!" I cried, shaking 
 him in my earnestness. "I would never have ques- 
 tioned you, could I have foreseen this!" 
 
 He heard not, but sat as rigid as if turned into 
 stone. 
 
 "Go — go! "he shrieked, raising his arm menacingly, 
 and pointing to the mirror. "Why are you come? 
 Why call me? Three times in the wood I heard you. 
 I have forgotten nothing. What have I done that you 
 should haunt me?" 
 
 The starting orbits of his eyes wandered to and 
 fro, then again fixed themselves wildly on the glass. 
 Every drop of blood had left his face. 
 
 "Am I to blame for Sigismund?" he asked, with 
 frantic gesture, throwing up his arms. "The curse 
 Jias fallen on me — on me — not on him! Take my 
 life — my life — not his! Spare him! Not Sigis- 
 mund's!" 
 
 "Anzano!" I shouted in his ear, "shake off this 
 horrible nightmare!" 
 
 I placed myself before him, hiding the mirror. I 
 chafed his hands. They were rigid. 
 
 "Forgive me — forgive me!" was all I could say. 
 
 Slowly the natural colour returned to his cheeks, 
 and his dilated eyes resumed a more natural ex- 
 pression. He passed his hands over his forehead, 
 and drew a deep sigh. 
 
 "Is she gone?" he asked, looking up at me as I 
 leant over him.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL, 157 
 
 "There is nothing, Anzano. Rouse yourself." 
 
 "What have I said?" he asked, anxiously survey- 
 ing me, to detect in my face the effect of any revela- 
 tion he might have made. 
 
 "Nothing," I replied soothingly, "we were speak- 
 ing of Sigismund's marriage." 
 
 "(9;//y of the marriage?" he responded, bending 
 his sunken eyes upon me. 
 
 "Only of the marriage," I answered. 
 
 "I thought someone else had entered." 
 
 His glance swept cautiously round the saloon, 
 darkened by the closed shutters. 
 
 "You are deceiving me, Lucius. Surely you saw 
 her! She stood there." He pointed to the mirror, 
 "Her long hair matted with blood — the gash in her 
 neck open. Her blood! — it must have dropped upon 
 the floor." 
 
 He was rising. I drew him back. 
 
 "No one has entered. We are alone." 
 
 "On your honour, Lucius?" 
 
 "On my honour." 
 
 "Did you hear no voice?"
 
 158 TIIE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 As the words of denial rose to my lips, a con- 
 cealed door in one of the frescoed panels flew open, a 
 shaft of sunshine shot like an arrow across the 
 darkened floor, and out of the sunshine emerged a 
 slight, girlish figure, entirely in white, her long, flaxen 
 hair moted with the sunlight. 
 
 One bound, and she was beside us. 
 
 "May I not come to you, Gonzago?" she asked, 
 her voice ringing as clear as a young bird's, "It is 
 not true that you have forbidden me? Say so — say 
 it is not true! You are not angry with me?" 
 
 She had flung her arms round the Marquis before 
 she perceived me. When her large blue eyes, follow- 
 ing those of my friend, rested on me, she gave a 
 startled cry, and would have rushed away. 
 
 But he detained her, holding her as she had placed 
 herself, upon his knee. 
 
 "Lela, you should not have come," he said gently, 
 smoothing the meshes of her abundant hair. "Did I 
 not warn you?" pointing to me. 
 
 His voice, his manner, as he addressed her, melted 
 with tenderness. Her eyelids dropped as she listened, 
 the full black fringe of the lashes sweeping her deli- 
 cate cheek. 
 
 Her half startled movements, her sweet timidities 
 of attitude, and a kind of hesitating restlessness with
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 159 
 
 which she ckmg to my friend were infinitely charm- 
 ing. 
 
 As I looked at her all sorts of disjointed recol- 
 lections floated in my brain. 
 
 Filippo's description of the "donnina" Gigia would 
 keep coming into my head. This was the precise 
 type he had described. 
 
 Regarding her closely, I perceived that she had 
 even that slight droop he had mentioned, in one of 
 the eyelids. "The flaxen hair, the black lashes and 
 eyebrows, the graceful undulating movements, nothing 
 was wanting. 
 
 On one fact I at once decided, it was no ghost, 
 but Lela that Frederick had seen the night before. 
 
 "Do not tremble, my Lela!" the Marquis was 
 saying, noticing the throbbing of her temples, and the 
 unconscious disquiet of her little feet. 
 
 "This is my oldest friend, Mr. Anstruther. Speak 
 to him, my love, now you are here." 
 
 She looked up, and stole a timid glance at me; 
 then held out the smallest and whitest hand I ever 
 saw. I hardly dared to touch it. 
 
 "Let me go, let me go, Gonzago!" I heard her 
 whisper. "I thought you were alone — and oh! I 
 did so long to see you. I have so much to tell 
 you." 
 
 "To tell me, Lela?" the Marquis said, holding 
 her still in his arms, and gazing earnestly into her 
 face. "What have you to tell me? Nothing, I trust, 
 that I shall not hear with pleasure." 
 
 He paused, a stern look stole over his brow, which
 
 l60 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 deepened into a frown as he vainly waited for a 
 reply. 
 
 Lela's cheeks flushed under his steady gaze. She 
 darted a glance at him from her speaking eyes as he 
 bent over her, then looked down again, and a flush of 
 colour suffused her face and arms and neck. 
 
 "Let me be with you," she pleaded softly, pressing 
 his hands, and then carrying them to her lips. "Let 
 me be with you, Gonzago, always." 
 
 "Lela, darling," replied the Marquis, trj'ing to be 
 peremptory, but failing utterly under the witchery of 
 her eyes. "For some days we must part." 
 
 "Must we?" she said mournfully, arching her 
 mobile brows. "No, no, not part with all of you!" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "It must be, Lela; you know the reason." 
 
 By a sudden movement she seemed to shrink into 
 herself. Again the restlessness of her tell-tale feet 
 testified to the rapid coming and going, the dancing, 
 the running of the nymph-like creature before me. 
 
 "You must not part me from — " the rest of the 
 sentence was whispered into his ear. 
 
 He shook his head, and with a cold glance put 
 her from him. 
 
 "It must be, Lela; it must!" 
 
 These last words were spoken in a more imperious 
 tone than he had yet used. 
 
 This evidently alarmed her. Her fair head sank 
 upon her hands, which she pressed against her eyes, 
 the abundant hair falling over them. 
 
 The Marquis contemplated her in silence. For an 
 instant she raised her head, and touched him. The 
 contact of her hand soothed him. Again he drew her
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. l6f 
 
 to him, and delicately raising fold after fold of her 
 wondrous hair, lay each golden tress back on her 
 shoulders, smoothing it lingeringly, as though the silky 
 texture delighted him. 
 
 Lela glanced upwards and smiled, but it was not 
 the same joyous smile as before. 
 
 "You will let me go into the ilex -wood," she 
 whispered entreatingly. "I cannot live out of the fresh 
 air — away from the trees. Don't shut me up, Gon- 
 zago, or I shall die." 
 
 She clasped her hands imploringly. (She had 
 forgotten apparently that I was present, I had retired 
 into shadow, hidden by an ebony cabinet that pro- 
 jected from the wall). Then, venturing to approach 
 nearer, she twined herself about the Marquis, as a 
 delicate tendril clings to a tall tree, her eyes, with 
 their wonderful lights, sparkling upon him. 
 
 "No, my child, no — I dare not. But, oh, Lela!" 
 he cried, straining her closer to him, "why have you 
 done this? You were my light — the light of the 
 house — the only comfort I had — and now " 
 
 She shook her head pensively. There was the 
 same restless hesitation, the same internal tremor, 
 which had betrayed themselves in her movements ever 
 since she had entered the room. 
 
 Some secret, or some thought withheld, was war- 
 ring with the frankness of her nature. A something 
 she yearned to tell, yet dared not. 
 
 "Do you think it costs me nothing to lose you?" 
 asked the Marquis, with an unwonted trembling in his 
 voice. 
 
 The Red Cardinal, 1 1
 
 I 62 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 But the fairy-like creature burst into a laugh. 
 
 "Don't lose me, then, Gonzago. Keep me close — 
 close!" and she nestled to him playfully, and toyed 
 with his hands. "I only want to go into the woods. 
 I must have been born there, I think, for they always 
 seem to me like home. 
 
 "And Sigismund?" Lela whispered into his ear. 
 "Are you afraid, Gonzago, that he will meet me in 
 the woods?" 
 
 As Sigismund's name passed her lips, I could see 
 that an indescribable joy shone over her. 
 
 "Shall I promise you to hide from him behind 
 one of the statues?" This was said with a gay laugh. 
 "Oh, the beautiful woods, with the great black ilex- 
 trees, the sweet, damp air, and the red rocks which 
 form seats in the shade! 
 
 "Everything loves me in the wood, and I love 
 everything. I know the different voices of the trees 
 as the wind sweeps through them, and they speak to 
 me. The birds, too, know me, and flutter down when 
 I move. Will you believe it, even the swine gather 
 round me and look at me like friends." 
 
 The Marquis sat, dazed and confounded. 
 
 Not receiving any answer, Lela laid her hand 
 gently on his arm, but he did not stir. 
 
 "No," she said, reassured by his silence, "I shall 
 not be shut up in the gloomy house. Unless I 
 whistle, Sigismund will never know where I am." 
 
 So little did Lela understand the tragic nature of 
 Gonzago's determination to part her from her lover, 
 that she laughed aloud at the notion of Sigismund 
 seeking for her in vain, and with a coquettish little
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 63 
 
 toss of her head, drew from the folds of her dress a 
 golden whistle, which hung suspended from her neck. 
 
 "Shall I call him now? Where is he?" 
 
 As she was raising the whistle to her lips the 
 Marquis grasped her hand so tightly that she uttered 
 a frightened scream. 
 
 "Lela, beware how you trifle with me. I command 
 you to forget Sigismund. I will hear his name no 
 more." 
 
 "Ah, that is because you do not love him. If you 
 loved him half as well as I do, Gonzago, you would 
 ask for him every hour of the day. You could not 
 help it." 
 
 "Child— this is unworthy trifling. I tell you, you 
 must forget him as though he had never lived." 
 
 "Impossible!" she cried, throwing up her arms, 
 from which the light dress she wore fell back, dis- 
 playing their finely moulded lines. "We have lived 
 together ever since I can remember. You might as 
 well tell me to forget myself. 
 
 "I have always loved Sigismund; long before I 
 knew what love meant. I understand it now. If he 
 had not loved me, I should have gone down and hid 
 in the ilex-trees and died. While I live it will be the 
 same. Sigismund is like a god. I worship him." 
 
 "Lela, it is for his sake that you must part. Your 
 love will destroy him." 
 
 "Destroy him! Oh, Gonzago, that cannot be!" 
 
 A grave look came over her bright young face, and 
 she put back her hair, and pressed her hands to her 
 forehead, as if to address herself to this idea. 
 
 "Sigismund is a man, and he knows his own mind. 
 
 II*
 
 164 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 He loves me. I have his word. He told me never 
 to leave him. The trees heard me, by the statue of 
 the Satyr." 
 
 "The Satyr!" shouted the Marquis, starting back 
 
 with horror. "Unhappy child. Do you not know " 
 
 He stopped abruptly. Then with white and quivering 
 lips, proceeded — "He cannot keep his word. If he 
 did he would be ten times a traitor to every Gonzago 
 that ever lived. He must not! He shall jiotV 
 
 The Marquis' voice rose into a tone of menace. 
 The look of horror deepened on his face. His hand 
 lifted. I thought he was about to strike Lela in the 
 fury of his rage, but with an imprecation he dashed 
 aside. 
 
 Lela's blue eyes fell upon him. She stood un- 
 moved. 
 
 "Sigismundwill never change," she answered firmly. 
 "Nor shall I. Where is he now? I thought I should 
 have found him here. Have you sent him away, Gon- 
 zago?" 
 
 Before he was aware of what she w\is going 
 to do, she had leant down and impressed a soft 
 kiss on my friend's hand, her eager eyes seeking a 
 reply. 
 
 I could see from the working of his features how 
 much he suffered. That he felt truest and purest 
 affection for this young girl no one could doubt who 
 watched the softening of his glance as it rested on 
 her, or heard the tender inflections of his voice, even 
 when commanding her obedience. 
 
 "Sigismund is not here," he answered. "Nor will 
 he come any more."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 65 
 
 Lela shivered. 
 
 "Promise me, Lela, not to seek him until I give 
 you leave — do it willingly." 
 
 Again he passed his hand over her face and head, 
 and lifted her tiny fingers, still red with the marks of 
 his pressure, to his lips. 
 
 "Will it be for long?" she asked anxiously, trying 
 to call up a smile. "I can wait a day — two days 
 perhaps — though that would be too long. I will wait 
 one day, I cannot promise more." 
 
 Her voice — her looks were so winning that it re- 
 quired more than mortal firmness to resist her. Even 
 the Marquis faltered in his purpose, as she clung to 
 him, half crying, half laughing in her eagerness. 
 
 "If it is not too long I will try — yes indeed," she 
 repeated, in answer to his pained look of doubt. "I 
 will try to obey you, Gonzago, and to wait." 
 
 Her fresh young face was raised again to his. 
 "To wait," she added, thoughtfully. Then lighting up 
 again. 
 
 "After all, I do not believe he is gone away at 
 all. Now I come to think of it, I am sure that he is 
 not." 
 
 "How do you know that?" asked the Marquis 
 sharply. There was a dumb menace in his tone that 
 made me fear he was, after all, but playing a part 
 with this sweet young creature. 
 
 "That is my secret," she answered archly. "Sup- 
 posing you have told him to go, how long will he 
 stay?" 
 
 "As long as I deem it needful," was the stern 
 answer.
 
 1 66 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 There was a terrible inflection in my friend's 
 voice as he pronounced these words, painfully con- 
 trasting with Lela's childish gaiety, and confidence in 
 his love. 
 
 "But if he went," she cried. "Oh, Sigismund!" 
 Her lover's name came from her in a wail of anguish. 
 Nothing she could say could have been so piteous as 
 that cry. 
 
 "My brother shall not come," answered the Marquis, 
 putting her roughly from him, the lines on his face 
 showing those signs of gathering passion I knew too 
 well. 
 
 "That shall be my care." 
 
 Neither of them moved, nor did Lela raise her 
 eyes. Her silence evidently wrought up my friend to 
 fury. The nervous working of his mouth and lips, 
 his hard breathing and changing colour, the excited 
 flashing of his eyes as he watched her, betrayed that, 
 spite of the anguish her suffering caused him, there 
 lurked an unalterable determination to separate her 
 from her lover. 
 
 Not for an instant was that determination shaken. 
 
 He was the first to break silence. 
 
 "My poor child — my little Lela!" he said, in his 
 softest tones. "Through all the years you have known 
 me, have I ever given you cause to think you were not 
 dear to me?" 
 
 Again she raised her tearful eyes to his, and again, 
 as if obeying an irresistible impulse, she stooped and 
 kissed his hand. 
 
 "Gonzago, I know your goodness, but "
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 67 
 
 "Say no more, Lela, I implore you; it breaks my 
 heart to see you suffer." 
 
 "But I must suffer," she answered, as she wiped 
 away the tears that lay wet on her cheeks, "if I cannot 
 see Sigismund, when I am to be his wife." Her voice 
 was low, but her blue eyes never faltered. 
 
 Such a reply, after all he had just urged upon her, 
 was more than he could bear. Catching at her sud- 
 denly, she staggered and fell, white and trembling, 
 against the wall. 
 
 I was about to interpose, when the stern menace of 
 his look and attitude arrested me. 
 
 "Speak to me no more!" he cried, his whole 
 form quivering with passion. "You are henceforth a 
 prisoner in your own room. Your owfi room," he re- 
 peated, in an imperious tone. "If I find you at 
 
 large " He stopped, as if afraid of what he was 
 
 about to utter, 
 
 "Go!" he continued, waving her off; "go; and if 
 you ever loved me, never see Sigismund again." Then, 
 Avith a stern and formal courtesy, he led her to the 
 door. 
 
 The shaft of sunlight still shot across the dark 
 parquet floor. 
 
 As Lela passed into it, her whole form was trans- 
 figured. 
 
 She stood clothed as in a fiery cloud, her wonder- 
 ful eyes bent upon the Marquis in a last appeal. 
 
 But whatever she might have been about to say 
 remained unspoken. 
 
 His imperious aspect and immovable attitude 
 silenced her.
 
 I&8 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Making me a timid little curtsey (I had followed 
 my friend to have one more look at her), and casting 
 a parting glance at him from under her long black 
 lashes, she burst into a flood of tears, and vanished. 
 
 With her the sunlight vanished also.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I 69 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The sad-faced butler now made his appearance 
 through the tapestry hangings. 
 
 "The Excellency is served," said he, with a pro- 
 found bow, addressing himself to the Marquis. 
 
 The butler was retiring as noiselessly as he had 
 entered, when the Marquis, looking up from the spot 
 where he had remained beside the secret door through 
 which Lela had passed, arrested him by a motion of 
 his hand. The well-trained domestic stopped as sud- 
 denly as does a machine of which the main-spring is 
 broken; bowing low, he awaited his master's orders, 
 who, with nervous haste, drew him into a corner, 
 where, with much gesticulation he addressed him, but 
 in so low a voice I could not catch a syllable, An- 
 tonio replying with a succession of profound bows to 
 what appeared to be most numerous and emphatic 
 directions, frequently repeated. 
 
 Left alone, I naturally asked myself, "Who is that 
 lovely girl? And why should she not marry Sigis- 
 mund?" 
 
 Just as my friend was about to explain, she had 
 entered. I was no wiser than before, except that I 
 had seen her. What had that innocent creature to do 
 with the curse of which the Marquis spoke? 
 
 Mystery! mystery! deeper and deeper; hopeless 
 myster}\
 
 170 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Even while I was standing beside him, the Marquis 
 had been under the impression that some supernatural 
 presence had visited him. The words he had uttered 
 betrayed to me his belief that this presence haunted 
 him continually. 
 
 Having at length dismissed the butler, with many 
 last urgent injunctions, all received with the same 
 profound respect, Gonzago crossed the saloon towards 
 me, a sickly smile, in which no particle of cheerfulness 
 entered, on his face. 
 
 For the first time in my life I felt a certain re- 
 straint in his presence. His violence towards that 
 helpless girl had shocked me beyond expression. I 
 doubted too his good faith. Was he acting a part 
 with me, as well as with Lela? 
 
 "You have seen Sigismund's love," he said hur- 
 riedly, his eye in the meanwhile wandering round, as 
 if he had grown so habitually suspicious, where she 
 was concerned that he could hardly trust himself to 
 allude to her, even in the solitude of his own house. 
 
 "Your curiosity, Lucius, is now gratified." 
 
 I saw that while he addressed me, he was scruti- 
 nizing my face, in order to judge what impression the 
 meeting had made upon me. 
 
 To ask a direct question was not his habit; his 
 strange mode of life had brought him into a condition 
 of nervous reserve upon all subjects, specially those 
 touching the hidden springs that agitated his troubled 
 existence. 
 
 "You complained just now of my want of con- 
 fidence. Could I show you more than in admitting 
 you to be present at that interview? You must not 
 wound me by any further reproaches of that sort.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I7I 
 
 You ought never to have heard LeLa's name — never to 
 have seen her." 
 
 "Why not?" I asked quickly. "Why should you 
 try to hide her?" 
 
 Thinking of the girl, so gentle, yet so courageous 
 — my feeling got the better of me. I proceeded to 
 address the Marquis with the freedom of one to whom 
 he was accountable. 
 
 He stared at me in amazement; then drawing him- 
 self erect, listened in offended silence. 
 
 "How can I reconcile," I proceeded to say, "what 
 I must call your cruelty towards her, with your pro- 
 fessions of affection? Why should you part her from 
 your brother? Where in the whole world would you 
 find a worthier wife for Sigismund? I will pledge my 
 honour she is all that she appears. Truth is written 
 on her brow. Do you think that threats will make that 
 brave girl give up her lover? I do not, I tell you plainly. 
 
 "Her pledge — her promise is to Sigismund, not to 
 you; nor will your brother ever forgive you. It is an 
 unwarrantable interference with his liberty of action." 
 
 The haughty astonishment depicted on the Marquis' 
 countenance when I began to speak, had gradually 
 given place to a sorrowful, puzzled look. 
 
 My reproaches, obtrusive as I felt them to be, had 
 hit him hard. I had presented Lela's position in a 
 new light. 
 
 I flattered myself I had made some impression. 
 Oh, that I might be enabled to help her. 
 
 "But I do love Lela," he reiterated. "I love her 
 as fondly as if she were my own child. If you only 
 knew how dear her life has cost me. I cannot explain. 
 You must take my word for it."
 
 172 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 From this admission I was about to urge what I 
 considered an unanswerable argument in favour of the 
 marriage, when his rigid look arrested me. 
 
 "We will not, if you please," he said, with the 
 frigidest politeness, "enter into that subject at present. 
 Some other time, Lucius. Much as it grieves me to 
 incur your censure, where my duty is concerned I 
 must remain the sole judge of my own actions." 
 
 There was a natural dignity about my friend that 
 in a moment put back from him all interference, with 
 a rebuke to the interferer. 
 
 "Pray do not," he added, "mention the accident 
 of your knowledge of Lela to your nephew, IVIr. 
 Stanley." 
 
 I thought of Fred's midnight encounter with the 
 fair-haired spirit. 
 
 There was no doubt that it was Lela, who, by 
 some accident, had entered the room assigned to 
 him. 
 
 The double rooms, and the locked door, which the 
 Marquis had not been able to open, might explain 
 this. The gestures Frederick had interpreted into 
 some weird lamentations must have been a passionate 
 burst of grief at my friend's opposition. 
 
 Oh, if Anzano would only be more straightforward 
 and unreserved, and that I could dare to tell him freely 
 all I knew. 
 
 "I am quite willing to promise to be silent to 
 Frederick," I answered. "What he may find out for 
 himself — he is remarkably curious and imaginative — I 
 cannot answer for." 
 
 At this the Marquis knit his brows — plainly show- 
 ing his displeasure.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 173 
 
 "There is one remedy, my dear friend — we can 
 both leave." 
 
 There was a tone in my voice, a stiffness in my 
 manner that had never appeared before. I had al- 
 ways given my friend credit for perfect justice, probity 
 and honour. 
 
 Since seeing Lela I had begun to doubt how far 
 I was justified in this opinion. Quick as lightning he 
 detected the change. 
 
 "Lucius," he said, returning to all his old sweet- 
 ness of manner, and placing his arm upon my 
 shoulder with that familiar gesture so habitual to him. 
 "Lucius, I understand how much you blame me. 
 Alas, I dare not justify myself. I can offer you no ex- 
 planation. But believe me when I say that your pre- 
 sence here is the only satisfaction I can noiv enjoy. 
 
 "I am cut off from all human sympathy. If you 
 leave me, you would but add a bitterer pang to what 
 is already well-nigh unendurable." 
 
 "I will not go," I exclaimed impulsively. 
 "I know you will not! Do not ever allude to such 
 a possibility. There is such comfort in the presence 
 of a friend. Yes, yes!" he burst forth, seizing on both 
 my hands and leading me towards the door. "But 
 there are subjects upon which I cannot touch. My 
 brain, yes, my brain fails me." 
 
 Li the ante-room we stopped accidentally under 
 the picture of the Cardinal. Although my friend's 
 back was towards it, some mesmeric consciousness 
 warned him that it was there. 
 
 With a sudden movement of disgust he rushed out 
 upon the landing. 
 
 "One moment, Anzano," I said. "I want to ask
 
 174 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 you a question. How can I help you if I remain 
 here? Pray reflect before you answer. I arrive here 
 at a critical moment. You yourself told me that you 
 almost determined to decline my visit. You are 
 greatly agitated at your brother's intended marriage. I 
 have seen the lady. She has won my heart. How can 
 I take any part against her?" 
 
 "She is an angel!" exclaimed the Marquis. 
 
 "And she loves you, Anzano." 
 
 "I know it — I know it," he replied, his whole soul 
 beaming out of his eyes. "But she can never marry. 
 She is ignorant of everything connected with herself. 
 I never had the courage to enlighten her. Sigismund 
 always treated her as a sister. She was dear to him 
 — dear to us both. A sacred charge committed to us. 
 Until I questioned him, I believed Sigismund's feelings 
 towards her resembled my own. Why should he have 
 chosen her — her of all others?" 
 
 My friend broke off suddenly, the wandering, dis- 
 tressed look rising in his eyes. 
 
 "Fate — evil fate!" he cried. "It was predestined! 
 Neither you nor any living man can help me. Alone 
 I must bear my burden. For a moment the tempta- 
 tion of opening my heart to you overcame me. But 
 she — you saw her — you heard her!" 
 
 I shook my head. I dared not contradict him. 
 His looks were wild. His words disjointed. 
 
 Opposite, from the still open door, gazed down the 
 sinister effigy of the Cardinal, a sardonic smile on his 
 full, red lips. 
 
 "She stood there!" he cried, pointing to the mirror 
 in the central panel of the saloon, just visible through 
 the tapestried drapery of the door.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I 75 
 
 "She rose from her grave to forbid it! Sigismund 
 must sacrifice his passion to his duty." 
 
 "And if he does not?" I interposed. 
 
 The Marquis closed his hand convulsively upon my 
 arm, A flash like the savage wrath of an animal shot 
 into his eyes. 
 
 "For shame — for shame, Anzano!" I cried. "Am 
 I come here to find my friend turned into a 
 murderer?" 
 
 "No, not a murderer!" He spoke under his 
 breath, the grasp of his fingers tightening painfully 
 upon my arm. "It is justice — justice to the dead!" 
 
 That his mind was diseased — his reason shaken, 
 who could doubt? His very virtues were turned into 
 vices. Under this exaggerated sense of duty, this 
 sensitive defence of principle, he was capable — No, no, 
 I cannot write it! 
 
 "Lucius!" he said, gradually loosing the pressure 
 of his finger from my arm. "Help me! Speak to 
 Sigismund. Warn him. You are a man of excellent 
 judgment. Warn him — Save him!" 
 
 Could I make the Marquis understand that no- 
 thing I could say to his brother could have the 
 slightest effect, when I knew no facts with which to 
 support my arguments, even if those arguments were 
 feasible? 
 
 "May I see Lela?" I asked. 
 
 "No, no!" At her name his vehemence became 
 excessive. "You must see her no more! That you 
 have seen her at all is fatal." 
 
 "How fatal?" 
 
 "Because it reveals too much." 
 
 "If you desire it, I will speak with Sigismund."
 
 176 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 He acknowledged this with a look of gratitude, 
 
 "Can the priest, Don Antonio, do nothing?" 
 
 "Nothing. Don Antonio is bound to act accord- 
 ing to the law. Besides, I fear " he stopped, 
 
 faltering. 
 
 "Does he take Sigismund's side against you?" 
 I asked, greatly relieved at finding some one of suf- 
 ficient common sense to adopt my views of the 
 question. 
 
 "Not wholly, but in part. Don Antonio wearies 
 me with his antiquated notions of the impartial posi- 
 tion of the family confessor, of his duty to the church, 
 of the claims of nature, and the sanctity of marriage. 
 I know what all this means. By Heaven, what has 
 the Church — were it represented by the Holy Father 
 himself — to do with upholding the spotless honour of 
 our name?" 
 
 A bell sounded at this moment from without. 
 
 "That is a second summons," he said, "to warn us 
 that breakfast is ready. Let us go, Lucius. We shall 
 find Don Antonio below in the hall. I must introduce 
 you. Come ! "
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I77 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 In the hall we found Frederick, as well as Don 
 Antonio. They did not appear to have spoken. Fred 
 was lounging on two chairs, his heels much higher 
 than his head. The priest was walking slowly up and 
 down, his hands clasped behind his back, among the 
 Roman emperors — very stern and very defiant in the 
 half-light of the darkened casements, Caligula espe- 
 cially prominent, Avith that bestial cast in his eyes and 
 swollen hanging lip. 
 
 Straight from the open door, shooting down the 
 centre of the hall, came a flood of light and heat, 
 laden with the heavy fragrance of flov^'ers, the mur- 
 mur of the fountains, and the rustle of the mid-day 
 breeze. 
 
 Don Antonio, pacing up and down, looked less like 
 a peasant than he had done in his tawdry robes 
 the day before. Still shabby, with well-worn knee- 
 breeches, worsted stockings, clumsy shoes, and a long 
 black coat, the days of whose glory had long since 
 departed. 
 
 So much for his appearance. In course of time I 
 came to know more of the nature of the man who 
 filled these homely garments. 
 
 The Marquis presented me to him emphatically as 
 his "oldest friend." 
 
 Dear fellow! In his calmer moments how he de- 
 
 The Red Cardinal. 12
 
 178 THE RED cardinal; 
 
 lighted to keep that fact ever before him — "His oldest 
 friend!" and his expressive voice always softened as 
 he said it. 
 
 "This is not the first time I have had the pleasure 
 of meeting Don Antonio," said I, bowing to the 
 guest. 
 
 "Ha!" returned the Marquis, eyeing us both 
 suspiciously. "Not the first time? How is that?" 
 
 "Yesterday was the festival of St. John. When I 
 was coming from Siena, I met Don Antonio in the 
 procession on the road near his church." 
 
 The Marquis' jealous inquisitiveness relaxed; he 
 was satisfied, left us together, and moved on to where 
 Frederick was sitting. 
 
 Frederick, who, apparently, had not, until then, 
 observed our entrance, rose, and in so doing, contrived 
 to knock over both the chairs on which he had been 
 reposing. Then, giving himself a shake, something 
 after the fashion of a water- spaniel, reluctantly placed 
 his hand in that of his host. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Stanley," I heard the Marquis 
 say; "I hope you rested well. I see you have already 
 been exploring the ilex-woods." A glance at Fred's 
 boots, stained with red earth, showed that the boy had 
 not had the grace to change them. 
 
 "Yes," was Fred's laconic answer, spoken with the 
 utmost brusqueness, "I have been looking for your 
 brother." 
 
 "My brother is not here," answered the Marquis 
 coldly. 
 
 "Not here? Why, I saw liim, and some one else 
 with him, early this morning, in the ilex-woods." 
 
 "No, no; impossible," replied the Marquis angrily.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 179 
 
 "You must have mistaken some one else for Sigis- 
 mund." 
 
 I stood in the doorway, listening to the dialogue. 
 I had dreaded something of the kind when Frederick 
 met my friend. What on earth was I to do with him? 
 He was evidently acting out his resolve of "showing 
 the Marquis what he thought of him." This in his 
 own house, too! The idiot! 
 
 If I was watching Frederick and the Marquis, Don 
 Antonio was watching me with the eager curiosity with 
 which one surveys a new species of biped. 
 
 Probably I was the first Englishman he had ever 
 seen; if English — Protestant; if Protestant — not Chris- 
 tian. I believe the good man was debating in his 
 own mind whether his sacerdotal dignity would permit 
 him to eat with us. As it happens, I, at least, am 
 a good Catholic. Fred, who followed his father's 
 religion, is a Protestant. 
 
 The Marquis decided any possible scruples by 
 leading the way into the dining-room. 
 
 "Don't disgrace me more than is absolutely neces- 
 sary," I whispered to Fred in the doorway. 
 
 "Don't bother me, uncle, until you hear what I 
 have to tell," was his rejoinder. 
 
 "That cannot affect a proper consideration towards 
 our host," I replied, in the same low tone. 
 
 "I don't know that," he answered: "a man may 
 receive you, and be an infernal rascal all the time." 
 
 "It will be well to remember," I whispered, more 
 enraged than I dared to express, "that the day is hot, 
 and that if your bad manners get us turned out of 
 the house, we shall have to w^alk nine miles back to 
 
 12*
 
 l8o THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Siena. Perhaps that fact may exert some influence 
 over your chivalric intentions." 
 
 "What are you waiting for, Lucius?" asked the 
 Marquis, turning round. "Everything is cold ah-eady." 
 
 Under present conditions the meal was not hila- 
 rious; the Marquis, with all his tact, could not conceal 
 that he was restless and ill at ease. He repeatedly 
 pressed us to eat and drink, insisting on my tasting of 
 every dish. This it was impossible for me to do, as 
 there were many courses. Strange to say, such a trifle 
 as my refusal fretted him. Then he turned to the 
 priest, discoursed about the estate and the crops, 
 specially the approaching vintage. From that, passed 
 into an eager discussion of some particular kind of 
 grape that would only flourish in one special soil. 
 
 In the middle of a course of roast beef he called 
 for some of those particular grapes, and declared that 
 Don Antonio must taste them. They grew on the 
 rock, he said, therefore had a particular strength and 
 flavour, admirable for mixing with other wines. 
 
 Fruit was only a vegetable, he insisted, in reply 
 to the Padre's look of dismay. Then he appealed 
 to me. 
 
 "The Germans eat stewed fruit with roast meat. 
 Everyone eats vegetables, why not grapes as well as 
 cabbages?" 
 
 I felt sure all the time my friend hardly knew 
 what he was saying. 
 
 Don Antonio, however, accepted the insistance, as 
 well as the grapes, in good part, all of us, save the 
 Marquis, eating with excellent appetite. His plate lay 
 before him empty. 
 
 Notwithstanding the little episode of the grapes,
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. l8l 
 
 the priest shovelled down huge pieces of beef, keeping 
 his eyes, nevertheless, actively engaged in surveying 
 myself and Frederick. 
 
 While the Marquis and Don Antonio conversed to- 
 gether, the aspect of this young gentleman kept me on 
 tenter hooks. He nudged me under the table, and 
 favoured me with what I may call "flying remarks," 
 spoken into my ear. 
 
 It was in vain that I moved my chair further from 
 him. 
 
 "Uncle, look at that fellow, the butler. I know he 
 is administering poison; we shall never get up alive 
 from this banquet." 
 
 A moment after, he was treading on my foot. I 
 had carefully gathered both my feet under my chair, 
 but his long limbs pursued them even there. 
 
 "I wonder in which dish he has put it? In the 
 gravy do you think? Uncle" (this time so loud I 
 was in a fever lest the Marquis should hear him), 
 "don't take the gravy. There, look at him; the aged 
 retainer is warning his master not to take any!" 
 
 Spite of this chaff, I was fully aware that some- 
 thing serious was germinating in Frederick's brain. 
 He was unusually excited, his full, boyish face pale, 
 his lips compressed, and a general air about him of 
 having found out something quite incompatible with 
 the outspoken volubility he usually brought to bear 
 upon all subjects. 
 
 His appetite, however, was by no means affected 
 by his pretended dread of the butler. He partook of 
 every course with such avidity that it suggested to me 
 absence of mind. 
 
 At last he laid down his knife and fork, leant
 
 l82 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 back in his chair, and raised his eyes to the Marquis. 
 By his heightened colour, and a certain nervous 
 tvvitching of the muscles of his face, I had an in- 
 stinctive feeling that something was coming. 
 
 "Marquis Gonzago," he said, raising his voice. 
 "I want to tell you that I did see your brother Sigis- 
 mund in the ilex-wood this morning, under the statue 
 of the Satyr. You contradicted me just now when I 
 told you so, but it is quite true, I can swear to it. 
 It was the Marquis Sigismund. He was not alone, 
 A lady," here Frederick broke down a little, and 
 stammered, "well, a girl, I mean, was with him. I was 
 standing on the road outside the wall of the Thebaide." 
 (How Frederick had mastered all these names I could 
 not imagine.) "They were standing under the statue. 
 To show you that I am telling you the truth, here is 
 the young lady's sash, I picked it up when she was 
 gone." 
 
 He fumbled a little in his pocket, then, with a 
 triumphant air, held up a broad blue sash. 
 
 "I found this on the ground. They were both 
 gone — your brother and the young lady, but I dare- 
 say," he added, in a tone of sulky defiance, "you 
 know to whom it belongs. When I say a thing," con- 
 tinued Fred, eyeing the Marquis with that desperate 
 kind of courage that comes to the nervously-shy when 
 once set going, "I do not like to be doubted. If I 
 had not been sure I should not have repeated it." 
 
 These final words were added in a more depre- 
 catory manner; indeed, they Avere partly addressed 
 to me. 
 
 ("Oh, that the mountains would cover me!" was 
 my only thought during Frederick's peroration.)
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1 83 
 
 The Marquis remained perfectly still — his dark 
 eyes riveted on my nephew — not a muscle betrayed 
 what he felt. 
 
 The priest, not understanding English, looked from 
 one to the other— then at the blue ribbon — quite at a 
 loss, though evidently the sight of the ribbon discom- 
 posed him. 
 
 "Allow me to apologise to you, Mr. Frederick 
 Stanley," said the Marquis, in his perfectly correct 
 English — with only a slight foreign accent, " for having 
 been guilty of the rudeness of contradicting you. I 
 have already had opportunities of admiring your 
 amiable frankness. It is a great quality in youth." 
 
 His sonorous voice rang out in the silent room. 
 
 "I perfectly believe," he continued in the same 
 measured tone, "all you tell me, though I confess I 
 did not credit the possibility of such an occurrence. 
 Would you mind confiding to me that blue ribbon? 
 If you attach any value to it, I will return it to you 
 bye-and-bye." 
 
 The complete self-possession of his manner, the 
 dignity with which he delivered himself of this apology 
 amazed me. 
 
 Frederick, his temporary burst of indignation past, 
 was blushing scarlet, as, with the ribbon in his hand, 
 he rose to comply with my friend's request. 
 
 Was this effort to command himself beyond his 
 physical strength? As the long, delicate fingers of the 
 Marquis came in contact with the ribbon, his sallow 
 cheeks turned deadly pale, and his hand shook so 
 violently he had the greatest difficulty in taking it 
 and forcing it into a side pocket, one blue end, never- 
 theless, still protruding.
 
 184 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 The efforts of the sash to escape (it was a lovely 
 blue, just the colour of Lela's eyes, and fresh and 
 new, with only the slight wrinkles produced by the 
 knot), came to me as typical of Lela herself — strug- 
 gling to escape from the thraldom imposed on her. 
 
 Was she also to be engulphed and buried out of 
 sight — (Sweet, pretty soul!) — like that poor ribbon? 
 Alas, alas! How I longed to save her! 
 
 Before he rose from the table, Gonzago had shaken 
 off that momentary tremor. He stood erect — dominat- 
 ing us all. 
 
 How small we were beside him! Fred— huddled 
 together on his chair — a mere heap of clothes without 
 a soul to animate them. 
 
 The priest, keen- featured, parched up, his small, 
 restless eyes noting each word and action. 
 
 Myself — need I again allude to Filippo's con- 
 temptuous designation of me? I could only fold my 
 hands in dismay and ask myself, W/ia/ was going to 
 happen next? 
 
 "Lucius," said the Marquis. "I am sure you 
 will forgive me if I ask your permission to retire to 
 my study. I have important business with Don An- 
 tonio." 
 
 The priest's quick eyes were on him in a moment. 
 As much as such weather-beaten features as his could 
 express anything they expressed concern — almost con- 
 sternation. 
 
 "My dear friend," I replied, "nothing but absolute 
 liberty of action ever contents me. I think I will — 
 in your own house — extend the same liberty to you." 
 
 The Marquis called up the faintest semblance of 
 a smile at my little speech.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. I 85 
 
 "Ah, Lucius, I too joked once. Then I could 
 give you a Roland for an Oliver — but not now — not 
 now." 
 
 He pressed my hand with as much warmth as 
 ever — an immense relief to me. Then, with a bow to 
 Frederick, who, suddenly recalled to himself, struggled 
 to his feet to return it, he opened the door resolutely, 
 and insisting on giving the precedence to Don An- 
 tonio, who, with many gestures of expostulation, craved 
 to be allowed to follow him, disappeared into the 
 room.
 
 I 86 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "Now I come to think of it, uncle," said Fred, 
 rising from the table, "I am deuced sorry I gave the 
 Marquis that blue ribbon. How do I know what use 
 he will make of it? He looked as black as thunder 
 when he took it. You don't know how sorry I am." 
 
 We re-entered the hall as Frederick was speaking. 
 At this moment I was so nettled at his behaviour 
 generally, and at his late passage of arms with my 
 friend in particular, that I knew, if I answered him, 
 I should not be able to keep my temper. The con- 
 sequence would be a violent quarrel which I wished, 
 if possible, to avoid. 
 
 "Do you think, uncle," he asked, quite unconscious 
 of the volcano of wrath I was inwardly nursing, "I 
 could get that ribbon back again?" 
 
 "You had better try. Follow the Marquis into his 
 private room, and demand it. If he does not restore 
 it at once, you are strong, and can force him. I pre- 
 sume your curriculum includes Bargees and Boxing?" 
 
 "Now, uncle, do speak for once without a sneer. 
 There is no chaff in this. I am sorry to see from your 
 face that you are really angry." 
 
 "Well," I replied, crossing the hall through the 
 open doorway to the colonnade, "perhaps I am — per- 
 haps I have reason to be. Having brought you here, 
 I am responsible for your conduct."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 1S7 
 
 "Now, don't go ahead like that, uncle. Surely, if 
 one man puts another into a haunted room, you will 
 allow he has a right to inform himself who the ghost 
 
 is ?» 
 
 "Ghost," I ejaculated, "be hanged! Really, Fre- 
 derick, I believe you to be a good lad, but if I had 
 known how ridiculously you were going to behave, I 
 tell you frankly I would have seen you shot before 
 I brought you here." 
 
 "I am sorry to offend you, uncle Lucius, but no- 
 thing on earth will persuade me that what I saw last 
 night was not a ghost. The sudden cold that struck 
 through the room , the hazy grey colour of the figure, 
 the way it flung about its shadowy arms — I don't like 
 to think of it." 
 
 "Because," I continued, too angry to pay any 
 attention to Frederick's explanation, and walking to 
 the furthest corner of the colonnade, where there was 
 most shade, "because you do not find here the 
 counterpart of English life and English manners you 
 either ridicule everything, or you take upon yourself 
 the odious and ungentlemanly office of a spy — a spy, 
 Frederick, upon your host and his household." 
 
 "A spy!" retorted Frederick. "No, by Jove! — not 
 a spy. Don't say that of me!" 
 
 The march of Frederick's intellect was, on no oc- 
 casion, rapid. At the present moment the rush of 
 new ideas concerning his own conduct, as seen in 
 the light of a spy, was too much for him; he grasped 
 the collar of his coat with both his hands, and stared 
 straight at the curtains. 
 
 Thus I left him to digest his reflections, while I
 
 I 88 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 proceeded to settle myself in a comfortable position 
 on a chair. 
 
 The colonnade was hung with draperies of striped 
 cotton suspended between the open arches. It was 
 luxuriously matted, and provided with wicker lounging- 
 chairs and sofas, the empty spaces filled with choice 
 plants in vases of decorated pottery, laurel-rose, waxy 
 tuberoses, starry gardenias, and tender pink hydrangias, 
 throwing out intoxicating perfumes. 
 
 Without, the fountains gurgled and sparkled re- 
 freshingly. The palm trees waved lazily in the sun, 
 the cacti threw up unwieldy limbs, and the pampas 
 grass swayed indolently in the hot breeze. 
 
 A broad wicker couch stood invitingly at hand. I 
 moved from the chair I occupied and extended my- 
 self upon it. 
 
 To a stout man there is nothing like a good roomy 
 couch; it is better than all the arm-chairs that were 
 ever invented. 
 
 The stifling heat of mid-day, the stillness of the 
 air, the buzzing of the flies, to say nothing of the sub- 
 stantial breakfast I had eaten, and the extreme com- 
 fort of the couch, admirably adapted to naeet the re- 
 quirements of a certain hollow Nature has placed very 
 unreasonably in the curve of the spine, all combined 
 to lull me to repose. The whole aspect of my mind 
 changed in this epicurean atmosphere. 
 
 My anger towards Fred melted away altogether. I 
 do not think, at that moment, I could have remembered 
 what had caused it. 
 
 How easy it seemed to make life happy in such a 
 paradise! If my excellent friend, the Marquis, would 
 only divest himself of superstitious crotchets, allow
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. l8g 
 
 Sigismund to marry whom he pleased, and accommo- 
 date himself to sound sleep and a healthy appetite, 
 leaving the spirits in the wood to their own devices, 
 how exquisite a month passed here would be! 
 
 This was my last intelligible reflection. By degrees 
 a dreamy unconsciousness stole over me. 
 
 I knew that Fred had something to tell me — I did 
 not wish to hear it. I knew I ought to speak to Sigis- 
 mund as I had promised, but it was too hot, and I 
 was too lazy. 
 
 Just as I was dropping off into a sweet slumber, 
 something buzzed in my ear, and roused me. At first 
 I thought it was a bee, and put up my hand to drive 
 the troublesome insect away, but the buzz gradually 
 formed itself into the sound of words. Alas! it was 
 that abominable nuisance, Frederick! 
 
 "Uncle, how can you have the heart to doze off in 
 that way, when you know I have something most im- 
 portant to tell you?" 
 
 "Another time, my dear fellow, another time; leave 
 me alone now," I muttered, struggling with the lethargy 
 of sleep. 
 
 I was in the act of dozing off again, when Frede- 
 rick laid his heavy hand upon me. 
 
 "Uncle, wake up! that foxy old Marquis has too 
 many irons in the fire to allow us to be long alone." 
 
 "Upon my word, Fred," I am sitting up now and 
 rubbing my eyes, "you are born to torment me! What 
 the deuce have you got to say?" 
 
 "Lots, uncle. You remember what I told you last 
 night?" 
 
 "I should think so," I replied, leaning back on my 
 cushion, and stretching out my legs. "You woke me
 
 igO THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 up last night when I was in bed; you wake me up to- 
 day when I am not in bed. Go on!" 
 
 But Frederick is in a state of mind beyond 
 banter. 
 
 "Uncle Lucius, I was up at daybreak. Not a soul 
 was about. I passed the iron gates, and wandered up 
 a road with walls on both sides until I came to an 
 arched gateway with a fresco over it of the Last 
 Supper. 
 
 "Beyond was the glimpse of as solemn an old 
 grove as ever those ancient Greek parties wrote about 
 as surrounding their altars. A broad road struck down 
 the middle, and at the further end a temple or a 
 chapel — I don't know which — something classical, with 
 pillars, rose quite hazy in the distance. I decided 
 that this plantation or grove, or whatever it was, must 
 be the place called the "Thebaide," laid out by the 
 Cardinal, Sigismund had told me about, for prayer 
 and meditation. You remember the driver spoke of it 
 also. 
 
 "The big black trees hung over the path so thick 
 that I could not see the sky, and there was a drip of 
 dew from the leaves, and patches of white moss like 
 wool, hanging yards down from the boughs." 
 
 "Go on, Fred — enough of that! spare me the pic- 
 turesque. We can go to Dr. Syntax for that, easier 
 than you can furnish it." 
 
 It will be seen that I am recovering my good 
 humour. I am coming, by degrees, to my friend's 
 belief, that it is useless to combat the decrees of 
 fate. 
 
 "Well, but it all hangs together," is his answer. 
 "The dead leaves lay so thick on the ground and on
 
 TIIE RED CARDINAL. iQl 
 
 large blocks of flat rocks, like gravestones, along the 
 path, I could not hear my own steps. The sun had 
 only just risen, and a damp mist lay about, particu- 
 larly over some pools of water as black as pitch. 
 
 "I am sure someone was drowned in that water, 
 and walks about at night under the trees. Well! — I 
 see you look bored, uncle — it was all so ghastly in 
 this cursed walled-up place I got a fit of the horrors, 
 confound it! The trees seemed alive and going to 
 speak to me. 
 
 "I ran along the wood as fast as I could, but the 
 trees, and the drip, drip on the leaves followed me. 
 The faster I ran the more they seemed to follow. 
 
 "Running with my head down, full tilt, not to see 
 anything — (you know that ghost last night — don't be 
 savage, uncle) — I stumbled up against a high pedestal 
 with the statue of a monk upon it. The face was 
 covered with a cowl. You would not believe it, uncle, 
 but I was such an idiot I stood stock still trembling 
 all over and holding on to a tree. I was thinking 
 what sort of a face I should see if the monk were to 
 lift up his cowl and look at me. 
 
 "At last I got under weigh again, and set off once 
 more as hard as I could pelt." 
 
 "Why, Fred," I exclaimed, "I must add to your 
 other good qualities, that you are become a perfect 
 coward ! " 
 
 "Never mind, uncle, I never was one before, and 
 I shall not be again. It is all the effect of this con- 
 founded place. Ever since seeing that figure last 
 night, I am as nervous as a cat. I don't deny it. 
 As I ran, I was thinking how awfully still it Avas,
 
 192 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 when I heard a faint, sharp sound from below, like a 
 distant cry. 
 
 "I turned off from the main road, in the direction 
 of the sound, and scrambled down a gully full of red 
 rocks, and leaves up to my waist. 
 
 "At the bottom was a boundary wall, on the other 
 side of the wall the road by which we came last night, 
 bad luck to it! 
 
 "I knew it by that cursed ugly statue of a Sat)T. 
 There it was grinning on the top of its high pedestal, 
 crusted all over with moss and weeds; its sightless 
 eyes fixed on the sky. Uncommonly gruey, I can tell 
 you, in the grey morning. 
 
 "A second time I heard the same sound, shriller 
 and nearer. 
 
 "I climbed over the wall, and stood looking up 
 and down the road. 
 
 "A third time I heard it, so near now and so loud 
 it made me jump, 
 
 "Certainly it was a whistle, but I could see nothing 
 for the trees. 
 
 "At last, out of the turn of the road, suddenly ap- 
 peared the figure of a girl, a long white veil falling 
 to her heels, and a broad blue ribbon fastened round 
 her waist. 
 
 "She came bounding forAvard like a fairy, quite 
 light and airy, and was close upon me before I knew. 
 
 "Will you believe it, uncle, she was the living 
 image of the 'donnina,' that the coachman described, 
 the girl who was murdered by the Cardinal; long flaxen 
 hair, blue eyes, black eyebrows and eyelashes, and a 
 light-complexioned face. 
 
 "By Jingo! I did feel cold."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 193 
 
 "Your ghost of last night, of course. How happy 
 you must have felt to see it again. Eh, my boy?" 
 
 "No, no, not the ghost, but like it, very like it. I 
 give you my word, uncle, uncommonly like it, but not 
 the same. I thought so myself at first, and, I can tell 
 you, got a confounded scare." 
 
 TJie Red Cardinal. 13
 
 194 I^E RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Fred had become very grave at this point of his 
 narrative. 
 
 He crossed over, and seated himself beside me in 
 the shade. His face shewed he was in earnest' and 
 he gave a prolonged sigh — very unusual in Fred; in- 
 deed I do not think I ever heard him sigh before. 
 
 "I assure you, Uncle Lucius, every sense I had was 
 in my eyes. The figure — whatever or whoever it was 
 — passed close by -where I was standing, behind the 
 trunk of a big ilex-tree, at the edge of the grass, in 
 front of the Satyr — close. 
 
 "Ah, now I breathed, for I could hear her light 
 step upon the gravel. I could see the real colour on 
 her cheeks, and the folds of her white dress rising 
 and falling on her breast. 
 
 "Uncle Lucius," here Fred stopped and breathed 
 audibly, "a great weight fell from me. This was no 
 ghost, but a living creature — a real beauty. 
 
 "V/ell, I suppose I was a spy after all — though it 
 was the last thing thought of just then. I did not 
 mean to be one, I declare solemnly. But I was so 
 taken aback that I kept staring and staring without 
 moving. There is no doubt I ought to have shewn 
 myself, to have come fonvard and said something.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 195 
 
 "But I was fascinated — fascinated by her beauty. 
 I shall never forgive myself" — this Frederick repeated 
 several times — "specially after what you have said to 
 me about being a spy. That hit me hard, uncle." 
 
 "Well, Fred, the harm is done now, past praying 
 for. Go on." 
 
 "All at once I thought we were going to have a 
 sudden storm; for as soon as she appeared, the boughs 
 began to rustle and heave in a most extraordinary 
 way though there was a perfectly clear sky overhead, 
 not a cloud to be seen and the rising sun shining in 
 yellow streaks through the leaves. 
 
 "At this the little girl seemed to laugh to herself, 
 and kissed her hand to the trees, and to the nasty old 
 Satyr, for all the world as if they were friends, the 
 sight of whom did her good. There was something 
 about this girl more than beauty." 
 
 Here Fred, very shame-faced and red, backed his 
 chair further from me, and forgetting the thread of 
 his story, burst out into what I may call an "ungodly" 
 digression. 
 
 "Uncle, I do love little feet. I may be awkward 
 and I know I'm rough. Fellows often do shirk intro- 
 ducing me to their sisters, but I know what a pair of 
 feet ought to be. Of course the little girl held up 
 her petticoats to come along the rough road. Her 
 feet were perfect. So full of life too. Would have 
 carried her anywhere — as springy as a racer's hoof — 
 and the little shoes — stunning! 
 
 "From her feet I looked up at her face — it 
 matched them; altogether so different from anything I 
 
 '3*
 
 196 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 had ever seen! All the other young women of my 
 acquaintance just coarse flesh and blood in com- 
 parison. So graceful too! So arch! So child-like 
 standing there, and bending her little head from side 
 
 to side like a — well " (after several gurglings and 
 
 gutturals, Fred got it out at last) — "like a lark singing 
 on a roof. I have never been in love," continued 
 Frederick, with the utmost gravity. "I always used to 
 laugh at fellows in love — as spoons. Now, Uncle 
 Lucius, I understand what it means. It came over me 
 like a fit. Such a burning — such a buzzing — my 
 blood running wild up and down — and pulses all over 
 me beating like blazes." 
 
 I turned round and stared at him, an image of 
 Frederick as he then appeared — his prominent eyes, 
 and full unfinished mouth generally wide open — rose 
 before me. How horribly ugly he must have looked! 
 All the same, joking apart, his matter and his manner 
 were both alike amazing. 
 
 The girl he is describing must certainly beLela — 
 the person of all others he ought not to have seen. 
 Of whose very existence, indeed, the Marquis had 
 warned me to keep him in ignorance. 
 
 Here is a complication! 
 
 "For a time," continued Fred, returning to his nar- 
 rative, "she remained quite still, only her laughing 
 eyes were roaming round and round the trees, which 
 had not ceased rustling. 
 
 "After the first, I did feel deuced queer, I must 
 own, looking at the little creature from behind a tree, 
 and she thinking herself all alone. But I could no
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 197 
 
 more have plucked up courage to speak to her than I 
 could have flown. She was looking dead the other 
 way and would have been awfully frightened. The 
 truth is, I did not think of myself, but of her. 
 
 "Now, uncle Lucius," — Frederick is rolling himself 
 against a marble pillar in front of me — "don't chaff 
 at what I am going to say. It sounds like a dream, 
 come to me wide awake. Everything was so strange 
 and unnatural — only it did happen just as I am going 
 to tell." 
 
 "Laugh, my dear fellow! I am much more likely 
 to cry than to laugh," is my response. "You have 
 developed the most unfortunate art of seeing every- 
 thing you should not see, and of doing everything you 
 should avoid, and as the consequences fall upon me, 
 I assure you, it causes me the very reverse of amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 "I cannot help that — all this came of itself." 
 
 "Yes, Frederick, but it was your own act to get 
 up before daybreak, and go out to look — to look in 
 fact after a ghost. The proceeding is in itself singu- 
 lar, and, as taken in connection with a visit to my 
 friend " 
 
 "I am trying to tell you exactly what I saw, uncle, 
 when you, as usual " 
 
 "What you thought you saw, Frederick," I inter- 
 rupted, correcting him, and at the same time, smiling 
 a little maliciously. "Remember the spectre of last 
 night!" 
 
 Fred grew purple — he was about to make an angry 
 rejoinder, but, with an expression of terrible earnest-
 
 igS THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 ness on his flushed face, he checked himself, and only- 
 held up his hand, as though generally declining any 
 discussion at that particular moment as inopportune 
 and useless. 
 
 "By degrees, uncle, I became aware, that a strange 
 kind of commotion was stirring all round in the wood. 
 The dear girl, with a gesture of command, moved 
 under the branches and about from one tree to an- 
 other muttering something to each. 
 
 "She smoothed the rough bark with her fingers, 
 twisted about the little green buds, and drew down 
 the lower boughs to her mouth and kissed them. 
 
 "At this the trees seemed all alive; swaying and 
 bending up and down, and rustling of their own ac- 
 cord — I mean the ilex -trees round the edtre of the 
 circle in front of that nasty old statue. I take my 
 oath they did. The branches see-sawing as she went 
 in; then rising high up to let her pass out. Further 
 back the trees moved less, but from the moment she 
 appeared, there was a trembling and a vibration all 
 over the place as far up as the top of a wooded knoll. 
 
 "Even then I could see the tops of the large trees 
 trembling against the sky. The birds, too, turned up 
 and twittered among the boughs, and a wood-pigeon 
 began to coo just over the pretty little head. 
 
 "When she came out into the open space, her 
 face shone in a kind of rapture. She flung herself 
 down on the ground, and lay her face to the earth, 
 the Satyr grinning over her like a fiend. I could have 
 knocked his bleary old head off for daring to squint 
 down upon her in the way he did. Then, as if she
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. IQQ 
 
 had forgotten something, she started up, and ran her 
 eyes eagerly up and down the only bit of the road 
 that was visible. Nothing was there. Nothing was to 
 be heard, only the twitter of the small birds, and the 
 cooing of the wood-pigeons overhead. I don't reckon 
 the noise the trees made, for that went on all the 
 time, as if talking to her in some language she under- 
 stood. I am sure she did understand what they meant, 
 for after awhile she waved her hand impatiently, as if 
 she had had enough, and seated herself on the marble 
 bench we saw last night in the moonlight. You should 
 have seen her little feet then," cried Fred, in a burst 
 of rapture. "If I am to go on I must not think of 
 her feet. That same bench, you remember, uncle, the 
 driver said the 'donnina' was sitting on when that 
 villain of a Red Cardinal first saw her. 
 
 "She pulled out something from somewhere — her 
 pocket, I suppose, if she had,^ pocket, which I am 
 sure I don't know — anyway, she pulled out from some- 
 where a gold whistle, and whistled. 
 
 "It was the same sound I had heard above in the 
 Thebaide. Then she stood still, and listened, her eyes 
 growing larger and rounder as they searched up and 
 down the road. 
 
 "'Bring him to me — bring him to me!' she said 
 to the trees, in a voice that just matched with her 
 perfect little feet. 
 
 "Round and round she turned, and from side to 
 side, her eyes up-raised, her hands spread out as if 
 supplicating the trees. 
 
 "To which they answered back, rustling awfully,
 
 200 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 especially one dry old chip of an ilex with little of 
 life left about it. 
 
 "From the way its old mossy limbs cracked and 
 swayed, and the few green leaves left at the end of 
 its branches shook, this old tree seemed to have a 
 great deal to tell. 
 
 "'Don't say that,' she answered, quite sharply, 
 looking up at it. 'I forbid you; you have no right to 
 complain. I am not ungrateful. I love your voices — 
 I do indeed, moaning to me overhead like waves. 
 But it is true that I love the sound of his voice better. 
 Should this make you wroth? I have been away so 
 many years, from the time the Marquis took me by 
 force to live in a house with walls, instead of out of 
 doors under the beautiful canopy of your leaves. Now 
 I remain there because I like it, and that sort of life 
 is best. He is there to make it sweet to me.' (Who 
 the deuce is he? thinks I, and I got red and hot all 
 over, uncle!) 'But I never forget you. It is very hard 
 to reproach me, when I come down full of joy to meet 
 him in your midst. Why I am here, you know — why 
 don't you help me? Oh! when will he come?' she 
 cried out in a weary tone of voice; she was getting 
 infernally impatient, I can tell you, walking up and 
 down on the grass. 
 
 "Of course there was a 'He!' How could it be 
 otherwise? And even if she had not already found 
 one, she would never have condescended to look at me. 
 I gave it all up for lost, then and there. It was folly, 
 sheer folly, to think of her. 
 
 "'Can you see him coming?' she asked the trees. 
 'Do look out, higher up the road. Is he in any of the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 20I 
 
 paths leading down from the house? You are so tall; 
 you can see ever so far overhead.' 
 
 "The answer came to her from the rotten old tree 
 croaking and bowing about in a sort of fuiy. Then 
 the other ilex joined in, backing up the old one, all 
 doing wonderful things with their boughs, and scatter- 
 ing their leaves as if in a high wind. 
 
 "With a grave look on her face, and a quivering 
 of her mouth, she began picking at the flowering 
 grasses and the weeds which grew rank under the 
 shadow of the Satyr. Quite absently, though, for her 
 eyes continually turned up the road until, picking and 
 picking, she had gathered quite a pile at her side, out 
 of which she twisted a sort of wreath with her nimble 
 fingers. This she placed on her head over her white 
 veil, laughing all the time, and turning to the ilex- 
 trees to admire her. I know / admired her," adds 
 poor Fred, with a kind of groan. "I shall never see 
 anything like her again, if I live to be a hundred. 
 
 "'See,' she said, as she threw the rest of the 
 weeds at the trees, 'you stupid old things! No pretty 
 flowers will grow near you. They say there is poison 
 in your shadow, but I can make a garland out of any- 
 thing. Sigismund cannot say I am not ready for him 
 when he comes — with a crown like this ! ' " 
 
 "Sigismund, of course!" I interrupted, "I ex- 
 pected that, just because Sigismund is the last person 
 who ought to have been there. And my poor friend 
 believes the two do not meet. What a complication!" 
 
 Here Fred turned upon me quite savagely. 
 
 "If you stop me, uncle Lucius, with any of your 
 observations about the Marquis, you will put me out,
 
 202 TtlE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 and I shall never get into the swing of my story again. 
 It is deuced difficult, I can tell you. 
 
 "The ilex -trees had never ceased all this time 
 making a hollow kind of noise, first one in the circle, 
 then the other taking it up, until at last she sprang to 
 her feet, and planted herself upon the grass before 
 them. 
 
 '"Oh, do not keep pressing me sol' she cried, 
 wringing her hands. 'I cannot — I cannot; indeed I 
 cannot! And yet it breaks my heart to say "No!"' 
 
 "With her hands clasped together, she stepped 
 from tree to tree. 
 
 "'It cannot be the old life again. Never — never!' 
 Then to the old ilex-tree: — 
 
 "'I know well the care you took of me long ago 
 when I was small. How you sheltered me and com- 
 forted me, when I had no one else. You are wise, 
 and you are good; you have balm for every wound, 
 because you have knowledge of many things; but oh! 
 my brother, you cannot take from me the love for 
 him that burns within my heart. I cannot live with- 
 out him! Do you think you could fill his place?' 
 
 "A proud smile parted her lips as she asked this 
 question, as if in mockery of her friend. How I 
 wished the fanciful little beauty would have called 
 me her brother!" — Fred sighed profoundly — "and 
 looked up at me with those melting eyes! I should 
 have answered her something, though I am such a 
 rough sort of chap. 
 
 "'I know,' she went on, as if still in argument 
 with the trees, which kept up the same rustling noise, 
 'I know you would nurse me and feed me well with
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 203 
 
 fruits and herbs and roots. You did it when I was 
 little; you can do it again now.' 
 
 "At this speech of hers there was a universal 
 shindy all round. Even the mossy face of the Satyr 
 bleared out in the rising sun quite knowingly; indeed 
 there was such a row going on at the time, I could 
 hardly hear her voice. 
 
 " 'How you bathed me in damp, sweet smells. 
 And what a soft bed you made for me, like a nest, 
 with dry leaves and moss in the cave on the hill-side! 
 I slept there warmer than the dormouse or the hare! 
 
 "'But I have learned another life now, and Sigis- 
 mund and I are going away. I am to stay together 
 with Sigismund, and he' — she added, with a merry 
 laugh — 'cannot live among the trees, so I cannot 
 either, for I shall be with him,' 
 
 "At this, one young ilex-tree (the largest and finest 
 thereabout) trembled and beat itself about so violently, 
 that many of its smaller branches snapped off. She 
 held out her hands to catch them, lifted them to her 
 lips, then dropped them gently, one by one, upon the 
 ground. 
 
 "After this the young ilex-tree shut itself up like 
 a box, and never moved so much as a shoot after- 
 wards. 
 
 "But the old ilex-tree began again to wave its 
 stiff old boughs. 
 
 "'I cannot tell,' she answered, after a while. 'I 
 do not know who my mother was, nor my father — nor 
 do I care. Gonzago never told me and I never asked. 
 I do not understand what use a mother is, nor what 
 she does. I was born among you.
 
 204 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "'How odd it seems to come out of the bark of a 
 tree. You ought to know who my mother was, for you 
 took me when I was running wild with the swine. I 
 can just remember how we all slept together on the 
 bare ground. You always said the Satyr knew all 
 about my mother, and how she came to leave me 
 alone in the wood. It was for that I got used to his 
 mossy face, just the same as long as I can remember 
 anything — and the hollow noises he makes when the 
 wind blows, which frighten the peasants, but seemed 
 company to me in the long winter nights. 
 
 '"I did ask Sigismund once where I came from, 
 but he told me never to mind, for it was better not to 
 know, and that it was all the same to him if I were 
 only myself. 
 
 '"So I thought no more about my mother, and as 
 to the magic words you taught me to draw all animals 
 round me and to understand what the birds say, I 
 have forgotten them. 
 
 "'I am more sorry about the swine than the birds, 
 for they are so fond of me, and come running down 
 from ever so .far and grunt at me for half-an-hour at 
 a time. I wish I could still talk to the swine.' 
 
 "Again her eyes were on the road, where the 
 shadows of the branches went and came. 
 
 '"Oh, Sigismund, how long you are!' she cried, 
 and the gold whistle was at her lips, but she did not 
 sound it. 'His words were — "at daybreak'^ — and then 
 — and then — ' 
 
 "Some happy thought struck her, for she caught 
 up her dress, and ran in among the trees, kissing and 
 hugging them, and singing little snatches of song, to
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 205 
 
 wliicli they responded, swaying down — and the wood- 
 pigeon joined in, and flew down to a lower branch. 
 The small birds circled round her, and a robin, bolder 
 than the rest, settled on her shoulder. 
 
 "After this, hearing nothing, she seemed to lose 
 heart, sat herself down on the bench and began 
 to cry."
 
 206 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "I COULD not stand that," says honest Fred, wiping 
 his face with his handkerchief, and shifting his place 
 from the chair to the pillar, and then back again. 
 
 "I give you my honour, it was more than I could 
 bear. I was just coming out at all hazards, to beg 
 her not to talk rubbish to the trees, but to let me go 
 and look for Sigismund, or do any earthly thing she 
 wished; when, as I was making up my mind how I 
 should address her, I saw two men turn the angle of 
 the road. The first I set my eyes on, was that brown- 
 leather animal of a priest, who hangs about at the 
 villa, in his snuffy coat, and shovel hat. 
 
 "The other was Sigismund, with a colour on his 
 cheeks that made him look superb. 
 
 "What chance have ugly fellows like me against 
 such a swell? Sigismund ought to be dumb or blind, 
 or something, to make up for his good looks. I could 
 have kicked him!" and impulsive Fred reddened at 
 the recollection; "but I didn't, all the same, don't you 
 know ! 
 
 "As soon as the priest caught sight of the girl, 
 which was not difficult, in her white dress, he whispered 
 a word or two to Sigismund, who smiled back at him 
 with his grand air, and the priest disappeared down 
 the hill. 
 
 "Then quicker than thought she ran forAvard.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 20 7 
 
 "'Oh, my love, my love!' was all she could say, 
 dear little thing, in a choked kind of voice. 'How 
 long I have waited!' 
 
 "Sigismund's arms closed round her; he covered 
 her with kisses. By the immortal nine, I never saw a 
 fellow so much in love before! 
 
 "What a pang of jealousy shot through me! I kept 
 telling myself I was an infernal fool, a damned ass, and 
 all that, but I felt as savage as a bear. 
 
 "It was all I could do, not to reach out and punch 
 his head. 
 
 "But what excuse could I have made? I was hid- 
 ing. Yes, uncle, you are right — I was a spy, and I 
 had to suffer for it. 
 
 "At first the little girl submitted quietly enough to 
 be hugged and kissed, but as Sigismund still went on, 
 small blame to him, she got angry, or frightened, or 
 both, and broke away from him, and ran under the 
 trees, at which, a rushing, angry whish of wind hissed 
 through the whole bank of them, as if winter had 
 sprung up, and smitten them with its blast. 
 
 "'For shame, Sigismund,' she cried, sobbing out 
 of the shade, holding on firmly with both arms round 
 the trunk of the old ilex-tree, which, too stiff to move 
 like the others, rattled over her head. 
 
 "'For shame! I will not go away with you if 
 you hold me like that.' Here she sobbed piteously. 
 'I will be free to do what I like. I won't be forced to 
 anything.' (Another sob not quite so violent.) 'While 
 your arms are round me, my head seems on fire.' 
 
 "Again she burst into a regular fit of crying. 
 
 "You may fancy, uncle Lucius, how cursed awk- 
 ward it was being where I was.
 
 208 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "Not even the glimpses I got of her beautiful little 
 feet could reconcile me to it, and that's saying a good 
 deal. 
 
 "Sigismund seemed so excited, I think he could 
 have killed me, had he known where I was, so I kept 
 uncommonly still. I can tell you, uncle, Sigismund 
 has a deuced deal of soft sawder about him, in a lofty 
 kind of way, but for all that he looked completely at 
 a loss. 
 
 "'Lela, Lela!' I heard him say, 'what have I done 
 that you should be afraid of me?' 
 
 "*I don't know' — she answered very low, turning 
 crimson to the tips of her fingers. 
 
 "'What has changed you?' — he asked, edging up 
 nearer to her, but he could not catch her eye; she 
 wouldn't let him. 
 
 "Little by little very gently he stole his arm round 
 her waist — (He did it very well, Master Sigismund, I 
 must say, though I was in tortures of jealousy) His 
 voice — you know what a deep tone it has — Really it 
 is too bad he should have everything! — dwelling upon 
 her name (which name, by-the-bye, I heard now for 
 the first time). 
 
 " 'Lela, my Lela — Lela, Lela!' " repeated each time 
 more softly, as he drew her closer to him. 
 
 "There was a little struggle, but Sigismund would 
 not let her go. By and bye, he took her hands, and 
 joined them in one of his, while, confound him, he 
 managed to lift her veil and to kiss her, passing his 
 fingers over her curls, and among the leaves of her 
 green crown. 
 
 "'Shall we go now, Lela?' he asked, very humbly,
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 209 
 
 looking fixedly in her face. "'Don Antonio is waiting, 
 he will think it unkind to be kept so long.' 
 
 "They stood close together as he said this — his 
 dark eyes glowing down upon her like live coals. He 
 was fighting hard with himself, I could see. Master 
 Sigismund, not to begin it all again. But if he had, 
 she would have been off to the old ilex-tree again, as 
 sure as fate. 
 
 "She made no direct reply, but her whole counte- 
 nance beamed back on him with joy. 
 
 "The sun struck down over them, and a sort of 
 vibration passed through the trees. 
 
 "The birds struck up loudly and the insects 
 chirped out of the leaves. 
 
 "Leia listened motionless, her very soul was in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " *Do you hear them, Sigismund?' she said, stretch- 
 ing out her arms, 'since you came they are reconciled. 
 "Go," they are all saying. Every one of them says it. 
 Don't you hear the murmur of their different voices? 
 And the birds, and the insects. They are all say- 
 ing that if I love you, I ought to go, and Gon- 
 zago ?' 
 
 "Here she stopped suddenly. 
 
 "'Will he ever forgive me?' 
 
 "She was supporting herself with her two arms 
 linked in one of Sigismund's as she asked this 
 question. 
 
 "'He is your brother, Sigismund, can you make 
 him?' 
 
 "Sigismund shook his head. 
 
 "'He thinks we do not meet; I almost promised 
 not to see you; I meant to try to keep my word, but — ' 
 
 The Red Cardinal. 1 4
 
 2IO THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 seeing Sigismund's dark face bent down upon her, 
 'but you sent for me, and I am here. How false, how 
 wicked I am!' 
 
 "*Lela, why do you think about my brother? It 
 is my turn now. Is not my love enough for you? 
 You know how strange he is. You must not listen to 
 what he says. I am willing to risk his anger for your 
 sake. He may forgive you^ he will certainly curse 7ne! 
 
 "'Curse you because of me! Oh, Sigismund, what 
 have I done that Gonzago should curse you?' 
 
 "She clasped her hands and looked up for an 
 answer. 
 
 "'Do not ask me, Lela. This is not the time; am 
 I not with you?' 
 
 "His grave manner seemed to startle her. 
 
 "'Yes, yes!' And she flung herself wildly at his 
 feet. 'Not to-day! Not to-day! To-day no one but 
 you. No one but Sigismund! To-day and all the 
 days of the year. What is Gonzago to me compared 
 with you? Oh! my love, my love!' 
 
 "Nothing more was said. They made peace with 
 a look. I am not good at describing, but I shall never 
 forget that look. 
 
 "All this time a devil of a row was going on all 
 round — everything seemed alive. A buzzing as of 
 millions of bees came from the shaking ilex-boughs; 
 the birds chirped like mad, and flew about; the frogs 
 croaked out of the brake, and the wood-pigeon that 
 had been frightened into silence cooed again louder 
 than ever, 
 
 "Once the dear little girl faced round and cast 
 her eyes on the trees, then dropped them again, and 
 turned away to follow Sigismund.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 21 I 
 
 "Whatever he wanted she had granted. There 
 was no mistaking the conquering air with which he 
 led her through a break in the wall, down the rocky 
 descent, by the same path the priest had taken. 
 
 "A few steps and her white dress caught on one 
 of the rocks that break the soil, which brought a 
 saucy laugh from her, and another little scuffle with 
 Sigismund. 
 
 "Now I'll take my Bible oath, uncle, that laugh 
 was taken up by all the wood, and sent ringing back 
 as far as the satyr. 
 
 "I could have sworn the satyr laughed too, with a 
 horrible kind of gurgle; but when I looked back, 
 rather nervously, there was its toothless mouth full of 
 earth, and gaping holes for eyes, blinking as stolid as 
 ever in the sun. 
 
 "Sigismund got his own way in the scuffle, as he 
 got it about everything else, lifted her bodily in his 
 arms and carried her down hill. 
 
 "When Sigismund and Lela were out of sight," 
 continued Fred with a most dolorous expression — (the 
 vein of poetry which the sight of Lela had developed 
 in him, as well as his agility in understanding what 
 had passed, was not the least wonderful part, to me, 
 of his most wonderful narrative). 
 
 " — I came out of my hiding-place, and looked 
 about. I do not mind owning that what I had seen 
 made me feel deuced queer. 
 
 "Now the little girl was gone everything was per- 
 fectly quiet; not a leaf stirred, and the birds were as 
 still as death. 
 
 "I pinched myself to be quite sure I was awake. 
 The more I pinched the less I doubted I had been 
 
 14*
 
 212 THE RED CARDINAL, 
 
 awake all the time. To prove it, there, scattered on 
 the ground, were the weeds she had plucked, the grass 
 she had trodden with those adorable little feet, and 
 lying on the earth a blue ribbon, under a tree — her 
 sash, which must have caught, when she was running 
 in and out in that desperate sort of way. 
 
 "I rushed upon the ribbon then and there, and 
 bagged it. It was part of her; I would keep it for 
 her sake ! And now, like a fool, I have given it to the 
 Marquis! It was all my abominable temper. I got 
 so mad with him, when he contradicted me about 
 having seen Sigismund, that I brought out the ribbon 
 to prove my words. 
 
 "I am sure I have got that dear little girl into 
 trouble by splitting upon her and Sigismund." 
 
 "She is in trouble, my boy," I answered. "All the 
 blue ribbons in the world cannot alter that." 
 
 "Then you have seen her, uncle?" 
 
 "Yes, and I can tell you, Fred, the Marquis will 
 crucify us, if he so much as guesses that you know of 
 her existence." 
 
 At this point Fred's humour changed, and he be- 
 came extra sulky. 
 
 "What do I care? As far as I am concerned, I 
 shall be very glad to go, I assure you. I am tired of 
 pottering about in this haunted hole, with no one to 
 speak to, and nothing but ghosts to look at. Sigis- 
 mund is not likely to come back, being in such good 
 company, and if he did, that would only make matters 
 worse. But, uncle Lucius, as you seem to have learnt 
 a great deal, can you enlighten me as to who this 
 young lady is? Why she talks to the trees as if they 
 were human beings? And what she has to do with the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 213 
 
 ghost of Gigia, the 'donnina?' This Lela whom I have 
 seen is her very ditto, only she is alive, and the other 
 is dead. She has even that little droop in one of her 
 eyelids that Filippo mentioned. I noticed it just at 
 the last, when she stood with her eyes cast down, 
 while Sigismund was pressing her to go away with 
 him." 
 
 "I can tell you nothing more, Fred, except that the 
 Marquis, for reasons of his own, which I am not at 
 liberty to divulge — I am not certain that I understand 
 them myself, so I cannot divulge them — desires to 
 keep the existence of this girl a secret." 
 
 A new light came suddenly into Frederick's face. 
 "Ah! I see how it is! That old villain wants to make 
 away with her, and Sigismund is going to marry her 
 to save her life. Bravo, Sigismund!" 
 
 "For shame, Frederick!" 
 
 "Oh, I don't care what you say, uncle. You are 
 infatuated about that man, who is, I do believe, next 
 cousin to a certain old party not mentioned by persons 
 of my distinction and breeding. I was not at school 
 with him, and I see him as he is. 
 
 "However, Sigismund has many hours' start with 
 her, specially if the priest has the nous to keep a light 
 trap handy at the edge of the wood." 
 
 "Perhaps they are not gone at all," I suggested, 
 recalling Lela's appearance in the saloon. 
 
 "Be that as it may, uncle, fancy that crafty old 
 curate having all this in his head while he sat at lunch 
 with us just now, as solid as an owl. I tell you what 
 it is," he added, suddenly seizing his coat with his 
 two hands — his favourite action when flushed and 
 nervous — "I really cannot run the risk of seeing that
 
 214 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 girl again with Sigismund. I can make up my mind 
 to anything for her good, but I could not sit by and 
 see the love-making. Nor is that all. I cannot for 
 the life of me get over being called a spy. So deuced 
 dishonourable, you know, and nasty, and the worst of 
 it is, I feel that it is true. 
 
 "Shall I walk over to Siena this afternoon, and 
 wait for you at the Hotel? It's only my vow about 
 finding the ghost that keeps me. When a fellow makes 
 a vow, he is bound to keep it." 
 
 "I absolve you from your vow, my boy — You have 
 seen the ghost as I told you. It is Lela, believe me, 
 and no other." 
 
 I should be sorry for poor Fred to realise what an 
 immense relief this unexpected proposal of his was to 
 me. Ever since my arrival he had been like an in- 
 cubus. 
 
 In the new crisis that had arisen it would be dif- 
 ficult enough for me to control the indignation of my 
 friend. 
 
 But if Fred were present, Heaven knows what dif- 
 ficulties his mischievous tongue and his admiration for 
 Lela might give rise to! 
 
 Knowing, however, his inconsistent temper, I took 
 good care not to acquiesce too readily in his idea of 
 leaving, or he was quite capable of changing his 
 mind. 
 
 "Think it over, my boy," I answered, secretly 
 chuckling at the prospect of a speedy deliverance. 
 "Think it over." 
 
 "Think it over, uncle! I never thought so much 
 before in my life. What I want is not to think at all 
 for the next twelvemonths."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 215 
 
 To relieve his feelings, Fred had recourse to the 
 solace of a very large cigar. Finding no matches in 
 his pocket, he informed me, he was going to his own 
 room to fetch some. 
 
 "What I may do, I don't know. Anyway, if you 
 don't see me again, uncle, you will know where to find 
 me, at the Hotel. I shall console myself with the 
 landlady. I can talk English to her. Oh, Lord! 
 Those jolly little feet!"
 
 2l6 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 No sooner had my nephew disappeared at the end 
 of the hall, than I caught sight of the Padre's black 
 figure stealing cautiously down under the orange trees, 
 close by the corner of the colonnade, evidently making 
 for the path leading to the garden wall, under which 
 Filippo and his friend Achilles had discoursed in the 
 morning. 
 
 If I could only catch Don Antonio, I thought I 
 should certainly hear something definite about Sigis- 
 mund. 
 
 I had promised the Marquis to remonstrate with 
 his brother on the subject of his marriage. There was 
 evidently no time to lose. 
 
 My own curiosity — I have never, in the whole 
 course of this narrative, concealed the fact that I am 
 curious — prompted me also, specially after hearing 
 Frederick's narrative, which, even allowing for his folly 
 and love of the marvellous, was most unaccountable, 
 as far as Lela was concerned, and pointed to some 
 new resolution on the part of Sigismund — an imme- 
 diate marriage probably, (the Marquis had told me 
 that '■'■the day was fixed"). 
 
 Had the marriage taken place already? And was 
 this meeting between them in the ilex-wood, witnessed
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 217 
 
 by Fred, a rendezvous on the part of Sigismund for 
 that purpose? 
 
 I had no time to consider. Don Antonio was al- 
 ready round the corner, so I jumped up, and hurried 
 after him. 
 
 But the outer air was hot, the sun scorching, and, 
 worst of all, the priest thin and light, while I am obese 
 and heavy. 
 
 I was only just in time to catch sight of the skirts 
 of his black soutane vanishing behind the stables, and 
 to behold his priestly shoes, with their metal buckles, 
 carrying him swiftly down the deep descent of the 
 road. 
 
 "Good gracious! What on earth am I to do, if I 
 miss this man?" I asked myself, with dismay. "I can 
 never hope to find Sigismund in this wilderness, and 
 deliver his brother's message!" 
 
 I did not dare to call after him lest the Marquis 
 should hear me — Heavens, how fast he goes! He is 
 distancing me every moment! 
 
 My stride breaks into a run, yet, — devil take him! 
 — the nimble ecclesiastic, with those long black legs 
 of his, is still far ahead of me. 
 
 I am at the summit of the hill, he at the bottom, 
 in the middle of a broad and dusty road — flying, it 
 seems to me, his black skirts spreading out behind 
 him like huge wings. 
 
 I must mention that, on this side of the house, the 
 ilex-woods recede considerably towards the mountains, 
 leaving open spaces planted with young olives, and 
 filled with rows of mulberries and vines. 
 
 At the bottom I perceive a small chapel or covered
 
 2l8 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 shrine, with a frescoed front, a green gate, and a path 
 winding among rough stones and scrub towards the 
 borders of the wood. 
 
 Don Antonio is evidently making for the green 
 gate, and the forest. 
 
 Once among the rocks and ilex-trees my chance 
 of catching him is gone. 
 
 What a position for a pursy old gentleman, under 
 the fierce August sun, without even the protection of 
 an umbrella for his head! 
 
 Surely the claims of friendship have bounds! Pal- 
 pitating and breathless, I come to the conclusion that 
 I have overstepped them all. 
 
 Half-way down the hill, when sun-stroke or apo- 
 plexy seem inevitable, I stop. 
 
 The villa is just over me. Don Antonio winding 
 in and out among the rocks, still flying. I am certain 
 he must be aware that I am following. That he de- 
 sires to avoid me is apparent. This motive, doubtless, 
 adds speed to his limbs. 
 
 What can I do? I must chance being heard, and I 
 call out. 
 
 '^Reverenza!" (I am shouting at last, driven to de- 
 speration.) "Stop!" 
 
 I have to repeat this several times before he will 
 slacken his pace. I am sure he hears me. 
 
 "Don Antonio," calling again, very loudly. "I beg 
 — I entreat of you to wait a few moments — only a few 
 moments!" 
 
 At this last appeal, Don Antonio does turn half 
 round, and stops. 
 
 When I join him his face shows plainly that he 
 would have escaped me if he could.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 219 
 
 "Don Antonio!" I gasp, quite overcome by my 
 exertions. "Pardon me — only an instant, to get my 
 breath! How wonderfully agile you are — in such broil- 
 ing heat too! Don Antonio, I have a question to put 
 to you. Most important, or I should not have exposed 
 myself to this dangerous sun. Tell me, as you seem 
 in a hurry, where is Sigismund?" 
 
 The frankness of my interrogation has the effect of 
 nettling the already irritated ecclesiastic. 
 
 "Don't mention that name so near the house," is 
 his curt rejoinder. He is moving onwards — watching 
 his opportunity as it seems to me, to avoid answering 
 my question by actual flight. 
 
 "Not so fast, good father," say I, managing to 
 place myself before him. "I have not heated myself 
 in this fashion for nothing; before you go, you must 
 be good enough to answer me." 
 
 Still dexterously dodging me, Don Antonio glides 
 onward to where the trees rise large and thick. I 
 follow. 
 
 Cost what it may, he shall not go without telling 
 me where to find Sigismund. 
 
 "Don Antonio!" (I am now speaking in a tone 
 of grave remonstrance.) 
 
 "Allow me to observe that your conduct is utterly 
 unreasonable." 
 
 This is in answer to an uneasy expression on his 
 mahogany-coloured countenance, while his eyes wander 
 off towards a clump of trees screening a ledge of 
 red rock, to the right of the path on which we are 
 standing.
 
 220 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Seeing that I am observing him, he instantly shifts 
 his glance to the opposite side. 
 
 "Do, I beg of you," I continue, "stand still, and 
 listen to what I am about to say." 
 
 Angry as I am, and expiring with heat, I endeav- 
 our to take things good-humouredly, and I contemplate 
 the peripatetic ecclesiastic with a smile (I am con- 
 scious it is but a feeble one). 
 
 "I ask you again. Father, where is Sigismund?" 
 Now I am literally hanging on to him, lest he should 
 boh. 
 
 Short of a complete disruption of his outer gar- 
 ments, I am resolved he shall not escape. 
 
 "Why do you address yourself to me?" he an- 
 swers at last, in a sulky tone. "How should I know 
 where Sigismund is?" 
 
 "I am certain you do," I answer from the folds 
 of a handkerchief, which I am compelled to take with 
 one hand from my pocket to mop my head and face, 
 while with the other I hold on to the priest's long 
 arm. 
 
 "It is by the express desire of the Marquis," I 
 add, trying to catch his restless eye, "that I put this 
 question." 
 
 "Doubtless, Sigismund is to be found by those 
 who have a right to seek him," is his offensive answer, 
 trying to extricate himself from my grasp. 
 
 "I possess that right, Don Antonio," I reply, with 
 as little courtesy as he shows me. (I confess I am 
 Avaxing very wroth at his persistent disbelief in my 
 mission.) 
 
 "I have seen Lela, reverend Father — I am deeply
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 221 
 
 interested in her fate. My earnest desire is to recon- 
 cile the brothers, and to arrange the marriage." 
 
 "Possibly you are, Signore Anstruther, like many 
 others, full of good intentions!" This Don Antonio 
 says with a sneer, and a contemptuous drawing up of 
 his sharp nose. 
 
 "But it is too late; I advise you to leave the affair 
 alone. The brothers cannot be reconciled, and the 
 Marquis will never consent to the marriage." 
 
 "But surely, Sigismund cannot be as obstinate as 
 my friend! Something can be done with him? He 
 will make concessions, it is his duty." 
 
 The priest shakes his head impatiently — again he 
 tries to move forward — but again my hand is upon 
 him, clutching at his coat. 
 
 "Really, signore," he adds remonstratingly, "It is 
 useless — " 
 
 "Allow me at any rate, to try," I urge; "I have 
 been specially authorised to do so. Surely, Don An- 
 tonio, in your Christian office, you ought to pity this 
 innocent girl? Have you not consented to perform 
 the ceremony of her marriage?" 
 
 "If the papers of the Marquis Sigismund Gonzago 
 are in order, I have no choice; the law compels me." 
 
 His stolid acuteness is utterly exasperating. In 
 spite of all my exertions, bodily and mental, I can get 
 nothing out of him. 
 
 I believe him to be on the point of breaking away 
 from me by main force, and darting off into the mazes 
 of the wood, when I make a last appeal. 
 
 "You cannot mean to insult me, reverend sir," I 
 say, "by doubting my word, when I solemnly declare
 
 222 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 that I am here by the express desire of the Marquis 
 hiviself?" 
 
 I am interrupted by a stir among the lower 
 branches of the trees behind the ledge of rock, to- 
 wards which the priest's gaze has so often been 
 directed.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "I ^VILL not doubt you, Mr. Anstruther, and I will 
 thank you for trying to help me," speaks a deep, 
 melodious voice I instantly recognized as Sigismund's, 
 out of the thicket of ilex-trees. "Don Antonio means 
 well, but he is really too hard upon you. Pardon him. 
 It is only his anxiety lest my brother should discover 
 my presence so near the house. 
 
 "I am here in answer to his own summons; he 
 considers himself responsible for my safety." 
 
 While he speaks, the tall figure of Sigismund up- 
 rises from the background of dark red rocks, among 
 which he lay concealed. 
 
 He had so far condescended to disguise himself 
 as to appear in a heavy peasant's cloak, with a hood, 
 and a broad-brimmed felt hat, that shaded the upper 
 part of his face. But it would have required a much 
 more complete disguisement to conceal the grand pose 
 of his head, his massive shoulders, his aristocratic 
 air, and the dignified ease of every movement. 
 
 He smiled at the bewilderment his sudden appear- 
 ance caused me, and at the blank dismay depicted 
 on the priest's countenance. 
 
 "I can answer for Don Antonio's vigilance," I 
 replied, surveying with a certain exasperation, his
 
 224 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 aspect of perfect coolness. The only evidence he 
 gave of any consciousness of the temperature being 
 the production of a large red pocket handkerchief, 
 while I, purple in the face and throbbing all over, felt 
 as if the ferment in my blood would never subside. 
 
 "Mr. Anstruther, you see in me a fugitive," — con- 
 tinued Sigismund, looking so like a fairy prince in 
 disguise, that at the moment I began to doubt the 
 reality of the whole scene, only my sufferings from 
 the heat were a cogent argument for painful reality. 
 
 "Condemned to exile for treason to my liege lord. 
 But the court of Love absolves me. You too, I hope, 
 hold me innocent?" And he turns upon me, with one 
 of those radiant smiles that must have won the heart 
 of any woman. 
 
 "Innocent in intention," I reply gravely. His light 
 jesting tone jarred upon me. The thought of his 
 brother's horror at what he was about to do, rose 
 vividly to my mind. 
 
 From me, Sigismund glances at the priest, who is 
 contemplating us both with cynical glances. 
 
 "Do not be alarmed, Don Antonio, I will answer 
 for the discretion of my brother's friend. Mr. An- 
 struther is an Englishman — therefore a man of 
 honour." 
 
 I bowed at this compliment to my nation, and to 
 myself. 
 
 Don Antonio only responded by another suspicious 
 glance, muttering something about the extreme ne- 
 cessity of caution in the Marquis's over-wrought state 
 of mind. 
 
 "Before any more is said," added he, "let me beg
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 225 
 
 of you to retire further into the wood. The mid-day 
 heat makes the air so still that voices can be heard a 
 long way off. Certainly as far as the villa." 
 
 His deprecatory manner continued unabated. 
 "He," it seemed to say, "had made no revelations. 
 Come what might he had done his duty!" 
 
 His sullen countenance, and a wide spreading out 
 of his hands and a raising of his shoulders, gazing 
 first at me, then at Sigismund, as he led us into the 
 shelter of the ilex-trees, expressed all this clearly. 
 
 "Now or never," I said to myself, "I must speak, 
 and that resolutely." 
 
 "If you," I am addressing myself to Sigismund, 
 "heard any part of the conversation between myself 
 and his Reverence, while you were concealed behind 
 the rock, you are aware that I have taken the liberty 
 to approach you in the character of a mediator be- 
 tween your brother and yourself." 
 
 "I could wish the office in no better hands, Mr. 
 Anstruther," replied Sigismund with a bow. 
 
 We had now, following the priest's lead, halted at 
 the foot of a far-spreading tree, with a canopy of 
 foliage so dense as utterly to exclude the powerful 
 sunshine. 
 
 "I am not," I continue, "enlightened as to the 
 special cause of your brother's opposition to your 
 marriage. Marquis Sigismund, but I have seen the 
 young lady accidentally, and " 
 
 "You have seen Lela!" exclaimed Sigismund, and 
 in a moment he was wringing my hand, with the 
 warmth of an old and trusted friend. 
 
 "Then you understand me! Is she not exquisite? 
 
 The Red Carditial. '5
 
 226 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 My very soul is bound up in her. Life is short, and 
 love the one good it bestows. Surely you would not 
 counsel me to lose it?" 
 
 All this burst from him in a kind of ecstacy. Then 
 he paused and coloured, as if conscious of the fervour 
 of his words. 
 
 "Believe me, Mr, Anstruther," he continues more 
 calmly, "it grieves me deeply to be at variance with 
 Anzano. He has been more of a father than of a 
 brother to me. His devotion to my interests has 
 always far exceeded my deserts. But that therefore 
 he should expect me to resign at his pleasure the 
 being I love beyond all others in the world, and to 
 whom my word is plighted, to accept a wife I have 
 never even seen, chosen by himself with no reference 
 whatever to my taste or feelings, is to ask me to re- 
 nounce my very manhood! 
 
 "You are his friend, but you cannot justify him in 
 such a demand. Indeed, having seen Lela, I feel cer- 
 tain you will rather justify me in my refusal. I pity 
 him profoundly for his hallucinations on this subject. 
 I will go further, and say, I can understand the shock 
 his imagination received from the knowledge of my 
 engagement. But that is all. A terrible event in our 
 family connects itself with the birth of my beloved 
 Lela. My brother conceives himself vicariously an- 
 swerable for it. A confusion of the brain is the result, 
 perverting his judgment. For my part, I could never 
 understand why he should hold himself responsible 
 for another's act. Out of respect to him I bore pa- 
 tiently with his infatuation until it deepened into 
 tyranny. Then bitter words passed between us, words 
 that scorch and destroy affection. His furious and
 
 TTIE RED CARDINAL. 227 
 
 senseless reproaches exasperated me. I spoke, I fear, 
 too impetuously. I glory in my love for Lela. I told 
 him so. You know the rest." 
 
 "But this devotion to your interests of which you 
 speak, Marchese Sigismund, this self-immolation which 
 you acknowledge characterises his treatment of you, 
 his earnest desire to remove every possible danger 
 from your path, and to instal you free as the head of 
 an illustrious line — free, I mean from the bondage 
 under which he himself has sunk, and which he fears 
 will overwhelm you also, if you contract this marriage. 
 — Does not all this call upon you to pause? I will not 
 allude to threats, because your brother's sincere attach- 
 ment to you would soon dissipate any anger he feels 
 for what he styles your 'disobedience,' but I allude 
 to the fact of your contemplated marriage. Of that I 
 am bound to say the Marquis invariably speaks, as of 
 an act in itself unnatural and sacrilegious." 
 
 A deep flush, followed by a sudden pallor, revealed 
 the emotion which my words called up. 
 
 Hitherto Sigismund had placed himself frankly 
 before me. 
 
 Now, gathering about him the folds of his peasant's 
 cloak, he turned towards the trunk of the huge ilex 
 that sheltered us, with the air of a man steadfastly 
 minded to resist all argument. 
 
 "Pardon me for repeating such words," I say, ap- 
 proaching him with the deference I felt due to his 
 wounded feelings. "To me, remember, the words I 
 have repeated convey no sense. I am ignorant of the 
 facts to which they refer, but to the Marquis they 
 appear conclusive. He solemnly declares that he will 
 never live to see this marriage consummated. Through 
 
 15*
 
 2 28 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 me he calls upon you, for the sake of the honour of 
 your name, and by the duty and affection you owe 
 him, to renounce it now and for ever! The balance of 
 my friend's mind may waver, but the strong sense re- 
 mains that some hidden crime has been committed, 
 for which he suffers 'vicariously' as you say. A crime 
 that will be intensified tenfold, and for ever perpetuated, 
 by the marriage you contemplate." 
 
 As I proceeded, Sigismund's countenance darkened, 
 not, as I rejoiced to see, with displeasure towards my- 
 self, but as with the purpose of a stern resolve, which 
 turned his perfect features into the rigid semblance of 
 a Greek mask. 
 
 Don Antonio, who had drawn aside while we were 
 speaking, still wearing on his face that air of general 
 disapproval he had maintained throughout, was about 
 to break in with what I imagined to be some fact or 
 statement in defence of Sigismund. But the latter 
 waved him off imperiously. 
 
 "And what do you think, Mr. Anstruther, has re- 
 strained me hitherto?" he asked, raising his grand 
 head, and contemplating me with the full power of his 
 lustrous eyes. "What has restrained me hitherto, but 
 love and duty towards Gonzago? 
 
 "Until now I have obeyed him implicitly. For his 
 sake I have sacrificed myself, — much more, I have 
 sacrificed Lela. I have borne to see the joyous free- 
 dom of her youth curtailed. Her fair name stained by 
 the memory of a forgotten crime. Herself a prisoner 
 until I set her free. No one in the house w\as to men- 
 tion her — to acknowledge her very existence, under 
 pain of instant dismissal, 
 
 "Even the place at our table where she had sat
 
 THE RED CARDINAL 229 
 
 from a child, was taken from her, with the harsh com- 
 mand that she was never to appear there again! You, 
 Mr. Anstruther, witnessed this outrage! Could I 
 bear it? 
 
 "Temporising has only exasperated Gonzago. He 
 has mistaken my patience for weakness, my silence for 
 submission. 
 
 "Now the time for action has come. I have left 
 his house. Lela shall follow me." 
 
 "Yet the Marquis loves Lela," I urged. 
 
 "Yes, as long as he believes that she implicitly 
 obeys him. He will hate her as he hates me, when 
 she crosses his purpose. To reason with him is im- 
 possible. He lives in delusion. Can you ask me to 
 govern my life by such hallucinations? I believe they 
 will drive him to madness. He has repulsed me, be- 
 cause I refuse to resign Lela. Now he would sacrifice 
 Lela to his crazy prepossessions. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Anstruther, in the name of common 
 sense, should I not marry Lela? Gonzago himself 
 brought her into our house; she has grown up among 
 us; I have had ample occasion to know her. How 
 could I help loving her? She is a rare mixture of op- 
 posite qualities. The playful simplicity of the child, 
 with the heroic determination of the woman. 
 
 "Her early life in the woods has poetised her soul. 
 All nature to her is alive with beneficent influences. 
 She is ignorant of the very existence of evil! Who 
 would have the heart to break the charm of such 
 angelic purity? 
 
 "Man never loved woman more fervently than I 
 love Lela. I bow down to her; I worship her. 
 
 "Who she is, or what her birth is, matters not to
 
 2;^0 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 me. It is herself I adore. With her, I am ready to 
 go forth into the world, disinherited and nameless. 
 
 "My brother must be made to understand this. 
 
 "If I voluntarily renounce his inheritance, he has 
 no right to oppose me."
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 2^1 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 As he spoke Sigismund stood before me, flushed 
 with the pride of youth and manhood. The words of 
 passion flowed from his lips like a musical cadence. 
 
 Every feature was transfigured by the fire which 
 burned within. 
 
 Never did I behold a human countenance so God- 
 like! 
 
 And the singular gift of beauty he possessed, was 
 not more remarkable than the entire absence of vanity 
 which accompanied it. 
 
 He must have been so accustomed to admiration 
 from his very cradle, as to have grown indifferent 
 to it. 
 
 I have noticed this peculiarity before, in others 
 equally favoured. They had grown so familiar with 
 the homage they commanded, that they accepted it as 
 a mere necessity of their existence. 
 
 My whole soul went out to him in all he said. I 
 had discharged my duty in remonstrating. I would 
 press him no more. 
 
 "This is all very well, my son," broke in Don An- 
 tonio, no longer to be ^checked or frowned into silence, 
 "but there is a great deal behind that you have not 
 told this gentleman. I will not enter into particulars 
 now; it would only needlessly occupy our time — but
 
 2^2 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 the fact is, as I say, your statement omits many im- 
 portant particulars. 
 
 "I summoned you here, Sigismund, to inform you 
 that your brother is, at this very moment, taking mea- 
 sures to part you permanently from Lela. Some tragic 
 fate is reserved for her — what, I know not; I dare not 
 guess. 
 
 "I escaped from the house to tell you. This Eng- 
 lish gentleman overtook me, and insisted on following 
 me, I tell you, you are wasting precious moments. 
 The Marquis must not have time to mature his plans." 
 
 "Yes," I added. "Unfortunately my nephew, Fre- 
 derick is answerable for this. Frederick saw you, Mar- 
 quis Sigismund and Lela together in the ilex -wood 
 under the statue of the Satyr. He also saw you //lere, 
 Don Antonio, in their company, a fact I did not allude 
 to before, because you, reverend sir, denied any know- 
 ledge of the subject." 
 
 I was glad to get this rise out of the wily priest, 
 who, if he could blush under his bronzed skin, ought 
 to have done so at the disclosure of the gratuitous lie 
 he had perpetrated. 
 
 At all events his twinkling eyes did fall before 
 mine. That was a certain amount of victory. 
 
 It will be observed that I kept a discreet silence 
 as to Frederick's having listened to what passed be- 
 tween the lovers. Like Frederick, I did not dare to 
 impart this to Sigismund. His dignity and his pas- 
 sion intimidated me. 
 
 "Frederick," I continued, "unfortunately picked up 
 a blue ribbon or sash belonging to the young lady. 
 This ribbon is now in the possession of your brother. 
 He knows of your interview. Frederick is in such
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 2^5 
 
 despair at the mischief he has involuntarily caused, 
 that he intends leaving Sant' Agata immediately." 
 
 "I thought you had taken precautions to prevent 
 all this, Don Antonio," said Sigismund. "When I went 
 down to meet Lela at daybreak, you made yourself 
 answerable that no one would see us. Has anything 
 more transpired?" he added with flashing eyes. 
 
 "Not that I am aware of," answered the priest, 
 much taken aback at Sigismund's tone of reproach. 
 "I did all I could, but the forest baffles one. The 
 young stranger must have been concealed behind the 
 trees. How could I guess this? At that hour, I be- 
 lieved no one was about. But the point to be con- 
 sidered now is, not what /las happened, but what is 
 abou/ to happen. 
 
 "The Marquis knows all, Lela has deceived him. 
 He will show her no mercy. At this moment he is 
 considering in what manner he will punish her. He 
 is greatly excited. Possibly he may come to under- 
 stand that it is too late to interfere. The law is with 
 us. I have checkmated him there!" 
 
 A sardonic smile shot over his face, like a sun- 
 gleam over a barren landscape. Later on, I under- 
 stood the full meaning of that smile, but not then. 
 
 And Sigismund? All this time the blood had been 
 rushing over his face, and spreading down to the 
 muscles of his massive throat. His large eyes grew 
 fierce and full as he listened. His nostrils quivered. 
 
 "Why did you not tell me all this at once, Don 
 Antonio?" he cried, stamping his foot upon the ground. 
 "You are responsible for Lela. He left her in your 
 charge. What have you done with her?"
 
 234 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 "I thought she left me to return to her room at 
 the villa. But it appears she only went to leave word 
 with Narcissus that she should conceal herself in the 
 wood near the Satyr, until you joined her." 
 
 "I will go to her instantly. Too much time has 
 been already lost. When Lela is safe with me, all 
 need for concealment is past. Then I will see my 
 brother." 
 
 Sigismund was striding away with long hasty steps, 
 when Don Antonio rushed forward and planted him- 
 self before him. 
 
 "Sigismund, listen! If you meet your brother now, 
 his life or yours will be the sacrifice. What a bride- 
 groom!" he added, bitterly. "Will Lela love you the 
 better for this violence?" 
 
 "All this is but temporising," cried Sigismund, 
 wresting his hands from the priest's grasp. 
 
 "He is no brother of mine, who injures Lela. You, 
 Don Antonio, are answerable for all this. But for 
 your counsels, I should long ago have married Lela. 
 Are the very heavens to fall because I love her? What 
 matter to me my brother's visions, his voices, his 
 threats of supernatural vengeance? Is my living Lela 
 to be sacrificed to a foul past?" 
 
 "The past has its mysteries," replied the priest, 
 solemnly, laying his hands impressively on the shoul- 
 ders of Sigismund. "As a Gonzago, respect them! 
 'A life for a Ife' are the words of the prophecy which 
 press upon your brother's brain. How combat that — 
 which is, in itself, immaterial?" 
 
 Of Sigismund's wild, impassioned words, his 
 agitated gestures, his stinging reproaches, Don An-
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 235 
 
 tonio took no more heed than if an angry child had 
 been battling before him. 
 
 How little I had judged of what stuff this rustic 
 ecclesiastic was made, when I first saw his homely 
 face under the ragged canopy. 
 
 "To wipe away the stain of a foul deed which 
 sullies your good name — not to gratify your passion, I 
 have aided you. More, I will not do; nor will I join 
 in any violence against the Marquis. 
 
 "The hand of God is heavy upon him"— (there is 
 no faltering about Don Antonio — no doubt of what he 
 means. His voice is full of authority, his aspect as of 
 a judge delivering a sentence). 
 
 "Remember, Sigismund, while he lives, the stain is 
 there. You are most unjust to him. What sacrifices 
 would he not have made for you, but for Lela! Surely 
 his are the errors of a noble mind; it is not Anzano 
 Gonzago, but the tortured spirit within, calling upon 
 him to expiate the act of another, that speaks in 
 him." 
 
 "Expiation!" cried Sigismund, rearing himself to 
 his full height against the forest background. "You 
 speak of expiation — what expiation is there like mar- 
 riage? It reconciles all! I care not for the past! 
 Let it vanish, with the evil shadows of these accursed 
 woods! Place of mystery and of ill omen, I trust 
 never to breathe the poisoned air again." As he spoke, 
 he threw up his arms with a wild gesture of universal 
 imprecation. Then, turning to me — 
 
 "Perhaps, you had better see my brother before I 
 do, Mr. Anstruther, and prepare him. Tell him, that 
 nothing but death can part me from Lela. We are 
 one — Ah!" he exclaimed, interrupting himself, "if
 
 236 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 you could but bring him to understand that my mar- 
 riage with her closes the record of the past!" 
 
 "That is my view," interrupted Don Antonio, be- 
 fore I could reply; "and on that view I have acted. 
 But the feelings of the Marquis must be considered. 
 Time must be allowed for him to recover his 
 equilibrium. At the present moment, nothing must 
 transpire; he is in a state of fearful excitement. Do 
 nothing, Sigismund, do nothing fiozv/ I warn you!" 
 
 "And Lela?" — as he asked this question, Sigis- 
 mund glanced fiercely at the priest. "My Lela? What 
 is to become of her? Would you, in your priestly 
 wisdom, counsel me to forsake her? One must suffer, 
 you say — is it to be Lela?" 
 
 What utter scorn curled his proud lip! What fire 
 shot from his dark eyes! How grand he looked in the 
 ardour of his lover-like indignation! 
 
 "No, no!" I cried, carried away by my feelings, 
 and quite forgetting myself; "not Lela!" 
 
 I had been called upon to curse, and behold, I 
 am altogether blessing. 
 
 "You, too, my brother's friend," cried Sigismund, 
 grasping my hand with passionate warmth. "I thank 
 you; one, at least, feels for me, and understands me." 
 
 "This is scarcely fair to me, Sigismund," inter- 
 posed the priest, the same sardonic smile flitting across 
 his face as I had noted before. "In my office, I 
 cannot now counsel you to forsake Lela. I am only 
 endeavouring to prevent a catastrophe. It is some- 
 what out of my way to assist lovers, but I have done 
 it; at my own risk, too; for the Marquis, in his present 
 mood, is most dangerous to deal with. 
 
 "Before I left the Axilla, I took care to let Lela
 
 THE RED CARDINAL, 237 
 
 know what has passed with the nephew of this gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 "Her light feet will long ago have carried her 
 into the recesses of the woods. There she will wait 
 for you. 
 
 "Brinir her down to me at San Martino. If need 
 be, I will see that you both reach Siena in safety this 
 evening. But remember, Sigismund, no rash interview 
 with the Marquis; I forbid it absolutely; in this I will 
 be obeyed." 
 
 "My sweet Lela!" cried Sigismund, in an outburst 
 of love, all the anger dying out of his face as he 
 named her. "At this moment she is waiting for me! 
 Only let me feel her little hand in mine — I ask no 
 more — she shall never leave me." 
 
 Sigismund was now hurrying onward along the 
 mountain path, but, as if suddenly remembering some- 
 thing, he hastily returned. 
 
 "I cannot go without asking your pardon, my 
 father, for my hasty words. You will forgive me!" 
 
 He seized Don Antonio's sunburnt hand, and car- 
 ried it to his lips. 
 
 As he bowed his head, the priest, with solemn 
 gesture, raised his hand over him in blessing. 
 
 "Say no more, my son," was his reply in his usual 
 curt manner. "I can make every allowance for you — 
 only act with calmness. Beware of accumulating a 
 load of remorse upon your head. 
 
 "Now, good-bye. I too must make all possible 
 haste to change my clothes, and carry the blessed 
 sacrament to a poor woman, who is waiting for me. I 
 ought to have been there an hour ago!" 
 
 "But Don Antonio," insisted Sigismund, arresting
 
 238 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 him as he was again launching into that rapid motion, 
 which cost me so dear, "remember," and a stern de- 
 termination replaced the humility with which he had 
 just excused himself, "if I do not find Lela in the 
 Avood I shall discover her wherever she may be, and 
 claim her whoever may oppose me!"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 With heavy heart I saw Sigismund depart. 
 
 No longer under the charm of his personal pre- 
 sence, the thought of my poor Anzano overwhelmed 
 me. I felt I had pleaded his cause but feebly, yet to 
 do otherwise was impossible. From the first I had felt 
 he was in the wrong. 
 
 And now I asked myself would he ever consent to 
 Sigismund's marriage? 
 
 If not, what would happen? To what frenzied 
 excesses might not his distorted fancy lead him? 
 Would blood be shed if the brothers met? And if so, 
 whose? A terrible foreboding crept over me. Would 
 to God I had never come! 
 
 As I walked on, mechanically, uncertain and de- 
 jected, in the direction of the villa, no longer sensible 
 even of the heat, and careless whither my steps led 
 me, the still voices of the wood came to me in the 
 mid-day silence, with a dumb perception of the multi- 
 formness of the life around. 
 
 A low chattering of birds, flying rapidly round the 
 tree tops, a buzzing and whirring of insects among the 
 rocks, a stir of nameless vitalities surging up from the 
 mossy bark accumulated on the ancient ilex-trees, and 
 from time to time the shrill call of the cicala's note, 
 ringing out like a bell into my tormented ear. 
 
 The jays called to each other, screeching hoarsely,
 
 240 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 the pigeons cooed sadly, far away in the distant 
 covers. 
 
 A young eagle, circling in short and angry rota- 
 tions round a lofty ilex, sounded a clear loud note of 
 defiance, and ceaseless, changeless — intermingling with 
 all, though separate — the dumb low whisper of the 
 vast forest, rising and falling as the hot wind passed 
 through the deep ranks of trees. 
 
 "I had, unconsciously, for my eyes were fixed on 
 the ground, wandered on until I had reached a green 
 gate by the wayside chapel. On the little homely 
 altar lay a withered nosegay of field flowers — an offer- 
 ing from some lonely one, who had nothing else to 
 give! 
 
 Still walking mechanically, I began to ascend the 
 hill, and found myself overlooking the open country 
 to the South. 
 
 A sudden gloom obscured the sun; a pale yellow 
 light gradually overspread the mountains. Gigantic 
 shadows flitted across the hard surface of the purple- 
 tinted plain, and great white clouds, storm-laden, and 
 massive, reared themselves ominously over the double 
 summit of Monte Amiata, revealed in all its majesty 
 of height and breadth. 
 
 The leaves in the olive-ground and among the 
 trellised vines trembled as if touched by unseen hands, 
 and spite of the heat, which was still intense, chill 
 blasts of air mixed themselves strangely in light eddies 
 and currents came and went capriciously. 
 
 I had now almost surmounted the ascent which 
 leads to the house, which I had descended but two 
 short hours before, in such lively pursuit of Don An- 
 tonio, full of confidence in my ovm powers of argument.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 24 1 
 
 Now, all hope had left me. The decrees of fate, 
 whatever they might be, I felt must be accomplished. 
 
 It was the hour of the siesta. Not a sound of 
 human life reached me! Above, rose the grey-stained 
 towers of Sant' Agata, rearing themselves out of the 
 many attendant buildings grouped around. 
 
 The sight of poor Anzano's abode inspired me with 
 a sudden dread. The rich carvings, mouldings, and 
 cornices of its splendid facade, the arabesques, coronets, 
 and medallions, brought out in strong outlines by the 
 storm-laden shadows, came to me as the gaudy em- 
 bellishments of a tomb. 
 
 What might not have happened within during my 
 absence? How should I find my friend? What ac- 
 count could I give to him of my interview with Sigis- 
 mund? 
 
 Now, I was within the precincts of the garden. 
 
 Of all the hangers-on and servants not one was 
 visible. Only the white statues that marked the un- 
 symmetrical angles of the paths, rose up out of the 
 shrubs, and saluted me with a stony glare. 
 
 What would I not have given to encounter the 
 cheerful countenance of Narcissus, or to have feasted 
 my eyes on the rotund charms of the comely stewardess ! 
 Not a beggar showed himself at the gate, not a dog 
 lurked about the doors. Even the white mastiff had 
 forsaken his post on the gravel at the factory door. 
 All — men and animals — were alike wrapped in pro- 
 found repose, that mid-day slumber which gives the 
 Italian life. 
 
 The same languid influence was apparent in the 
 parterre. Under the stifling heat the flowers hung 
 
 The Red Cardinal. 10
 
 2y. 
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 their heads, the fresh green of the leaves flagged, the 
 grass was dried up and brown. 
 
 Only the bristling cactus and the fan-shaped palms, 
 like well-seasoned athletes, rejoiced in the hot air, and 
 the fountains sang on, indifferent, splashing downwards 
 upon the gold fish, placidly sleeping beneath, balanced 
 on the surface of the water. 
 
 Every window in the sculptured front of the villa 
 was closed. This is but the usual custom at mid-day. 
 Now it made me shudder. It was as if death were 
 hidden there. 
 
 I crossed one of the gravel-paths hastily and seated 
 myself within the shelter of the portico. The heavy 
 curtains, drawn down to exclude the heat, filled the 
 pillared space with gloom. 
 
 In the hall beyond nothing could be distinguished. 
 The pent-up odour of the flowering plants piled against 
 the walls came to me so strong and pungent that I 
 leaned back faint upon my chair. Again the thought 
 of death pursued me. Are not strongly-scented leaves 
 and flowers scattered to veil the presence of a corpse? 
 
 One idea struck me with a vague sensation of re- 
 lief. Frederick must have acted on his resolve, and 
 returned to Siena, else I should infallibly have en- 
 countered him. His presence would, at least, create 
 
 no further embarrassment. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Yes, I was alone at Sant' Agata! Alone I must 
 meet whatever was impending. 
 
 As I sat on, without the courage to enter the house, 
 a piercing cry from the woods reached me. It was 
 followed by no other sound. Was it the sharp note of 
 a bird, caught in the woodman's net, which I had
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 243 
 
 seen below, stretched from tree to tree? Or could 
 it be a human voice calling for help? 
 
 Filled with a vague anxiety, I rose and I walked 
 towards the iron gates at the entrance of the garden. 
 
 Nothing met my eye. The dark net-work of ilex- 
 branches reared itself sadly against the leaden sky. A 
 shaft of lurid sunshine shot downwards for a moment, 
 then paled, turning it into the semblance of prison 
 bars. 
 
 While I was wondering what creature could have 
 given utterance to that piercing cry, the sound of hasty 
 footsteps met my ear. Minute by minute they drew 
 nearer. There was a stifled sob, then a low wail. 
 Surely it was the voice of Lela! 
 
 How long I waited, I know not — the moments 
 seemed hours. At last, over the rise of the hill, ap- 
 peared two figures, the Marquis and Lela. 
 
 Half dragging, half carrying her, she lay within 
 his arms. Whatever resistance she might have offered, 
 her struggles had ceased. Her flaxen head was rudely 
 crushed against his side, her eyelids were closed, her 
 cheeks colourless, the thick coils of her loosened hair 
 swept upon the ground. 
 
 Great God! Was she dead? Had Anzano 
 murdered her? 
 
 No link in the chain of events had prepared me 
 for such a catastrophe. All that Don Antonio had 
 said was, that he had left my friend considering in 
 what manner he should punish her. 
 
 Now he has reached me. I can hear his laboured 
 breathing before the power of speech returned to me. 
 
 i6»
 
 244 'niE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Anzano! Anzano!" I shouted, flinging myself upon 
 him. "What have you done?" 
 
 He was quite still. He looked me full in the 
 face, the dilated pupils of his eyes glaring upon me. 
 
 "Touch me not!" were his words, warding me off 
 with his disengaged arm, while with the other he 
 tightened his hold on the passive form of Lela. "Touch 
 me not! I am on a holy mission. A life for a Ufe! 
 Where her mother fell, she must die also!" 
 
 There was a fearful calm about him terrible to be- 
 hold. He had suddenly aged as if a lifetime had 
 passed over him. Every feature in his face was set. 
 His eyes were scarcely human. 
 
 But, to my inexpressible relief, he cowered under 
 my steady gaze. 
 
 "Listen, Anzano!" I managed to speak in a com- 
 manding voice. How I did this, I know not — "If 
 Lela is not dead" — (and I raised one of her cold, 
 clammy hands in mine and pressed it to my lips. 
 Thank God there was still the pulse of life in it) — 
 "let us both endeavour to revive her." 
 
 I stretched out my arm to take her, but he made 
 no answering move. Yet, although he would not give 
 her up to me, I dominated him. 
 
 My obvious determination to rescue her did not 
 infuriate him. Spite of his efforts to rid himself of 
 me, I closed my hand upon his arm with a grip of 
 iron. Presently he submitted to my sustained pres- 
 sure and loosened his hold, A change passed over 
 him; the strain on his feature relaxed, and he bent 
 over her as she lay within his arms. 
 
 "Poor Lela! Sweet child!" he murmured in scarcely 
 articulate accents. "How I once loved her!"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 245 
 
 How joyfully I hailed these signs of yielding! Now 
 he was gazing into her half-closed eyes, his hand 
 wandering tenderly over her face and neck. Surely 
 reason would gain the mastery! His whole being 
 moved within him as he stood there. His breast 
 heaved, his limbs shook violently, yet no tear came 
 to his relief, no sound betrayed his anguish. 
 
 Little by little, he raised her upright, then placed 
 her tenderly on the ground. 
 
 With a low moan she broke from him, then fell 
 forward, half-conscious, on the grass. I went to her 
 and raised her; she had only seen me during that 
 interview with the Marquis in the darkened saloon, 
 but she understood that I was there to help her. 
 
 "Save me! save me!" was all she could say. Then, 
 turning her appealing eyes to mine — "Do not let me 
 go!" she whispered, tightening her hold on me. "He 
 wants to kill me." 
 
 "Depend on me, Lela," I replied, putting back 
 from her brow the ruffled tresses of her golden hair. 
 "Take heart, dear child! Where I am, you are safe." 
 
 She thanked me by a look, then lifted her eyes in 
 mute reproach to the ilex-trees, swaying restlessly over 
 the balustrated wall. 
 
 "I trusted to them to bring me to Sigismund! 
 And they betrayed me! After so many years — so 
 many " 
 
 A sudden gust from the wood seemed to bear 
 away her words. She started and turned round. Then, 
 conscious that I must have heard what she said, she 
 took my hand with a faint effort at a smile. 
 
 "I know who you are — IVIr. Anstruther, the friend
 
 246 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 of the Marquis! Don't listen to what I am saying to 
 the trees. You will think it nonsense!" 
 
 Here the strain of terror caused by her recent 
 escape from death suddenly overcame her. With the 
 certainty of safety came weakness. She drew a long 
 breath, and burst into a passionate flood of tears. 
 
 At that moment, a low moan swept through the 
 close network of branches, and passed down to the 
 uttermost depths of the silent, rock-bound plain. The 
 hollow roll of distant thunder rattled from among the 
 far-off mountains, and the ground trembled beneath 
 our feet. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Marquis's eyes never left us. 
 
 Again the signs of that maniacal fury were gather- 
 ing on his brow. 
 
 "Lucius!" he said at last, in a hushed voice. "As 
 you value my regard, leave Lela! She has basely de- 
 ceived me. She has met Sigismund. But it is for 
 the last time. A life for a Ife! My word is passed!" 
 
 Muttering something, he was about to fling him- 
 self upon her, when bounding from me, she faced 
 him. 
 
 "Gonzago! Hear me!" she cried, her fresh young 
 voice sounding like the note of a bird, "You may kill 
 me, but you shall never part me from Sigismund! He 
 loves me! I am his — his own!" 
 
 "His! How his? His paramour? Have you sunk 
 so low as that, vile bastard?" shouted the Marquis, 
 roused by her boldness to a sense of what was passing 
 about him. 
 
 At last he had spoken! The secret of his life was 
 revealed! Nothing but madness could have torn it 
 from him. Had any doubt remained, he had solved it.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL, 247 
 
 As the hateful words passed Anzano's lips, Lela's 
 large eyes opened upon him. A startled movement 
 backwards and the quick motion of her hands showed 
 that she understood his words had branded her. Even 
 Gonzago paused in the full torrent of his wrath, with 
 some dim consciousness of the outrage of which he 
 had been guilty. 
 
 For an instant only. Then, with a movement of 
 blind rage, he precipitated himself upon her, crashing 
 through the light barrier of shrubs that divided them. 
 
 But before he could reach her, by a rapid move- 
 ment backward, she had taken refuge with me. 
 
 Holding her firmly by the hand, my looks plainly 
 showed that I would defend her against his violence. 
 
 Evidently he shrank from any attack on me. With 
 a baffled air he turned away, and tried to reason. 
 
 "Let her go, Lucius, let her go!" he shouted. "Her 
 life is mine. She was thought to be dead. Orders 
 were given by" — (here an inaudible word filled up the 
 sentence) — "to kill her. I — I — saved her! You under- 
 stand. I saved her." 
 
 He stopped. A vacant look came over his face. 
 He had lost the thread of Avhat he was saying. Help- 
 lessly pressing his hands upon his brow, he made a 
 vain effort to recall it. 
 
 I seized upon this lull to retreat with Lela to the 
 rear of one of the large marble basins. Step by step, 
 he followed us. His haggard eye never left us. 
 
 "She is of my blood!" he muttered — "of my 
 blood." Then louder, in a tone of menace: "I — I am 
 her natural guardian. She must be sacrificed." 
 
 "Sacrificed to whom?" I asked, suddenly turning
 
 248 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 on him; while Lela, understanding her danger, could 
 not repress a cry. 
 
 "To the dead!" he answered solemnly, throwing 
 up his arms — "To the dead! I promised! I have 
 waited too long!" 
 
 Step by step, he was following us with the dogged 
 persistence of madness. Each moment was weighted 
 with Lela's doom. I saw it in his merciless face, so 
 drawn and white, in the gleam of his glassy eye, in 
 his set teeth, and the restless tearing action of his 
 hands. 
 
 How could I, single handed, battle with a maniac? 
 Would Sigismund never come? 
 
 Meanwhile, a great shadow fell upon us. The 
 clouds, which had been rapidly gathering from all 
 quarters of the heavens, almost obscured the sun. A 
 hot white mist arose from the plain, shutting out every 
 distant object. Dark lines formed along the paths, 
 gloomy circles marked the orange trees and the big 
 tufts of pampas grass; the statues cast blackened 
 shadows: the front of the villa gloomed into an almost 
 undistinguishable mass. A loud clap of thunder 
 crashed out, and a vivid flash of lightning lit up the 
 air into momentary flames. 
 
 "The time is come," said a voice out of the gloom. 
 
 "Lucius, give Lela up to me! They are waiting 
 for her there! There," he repeated, raising his hands 
 above his head, and pointing to the window of the 
 old factory. 
 
 Lela clung to me despairingly. 
 
 "Sigismund! Sigismund! Oh, my Sigismund! 
 Where are you?" came from her lips in little cries,
 
 THE RED CARDINAL, 249 
 
 heard only by me. Gonzago was trying to grasp my 
 shoulder, but I avoided him. 
 
 "Judge between Lela and me! Judge," he repeated, 
 making a great effort to be calm. "When I came here 
 at Cardinal Flavio's death " 
 
 As the hated name passed his lips, he shuddered; 
 his self-control suddenly gave way, and he opened his 
 arms to seize Lela. 
 
 Placing her behind me, I faced him. 
 
 "I am listening," I said. "Proceed quietly. It will 
 be impossible for me to act as umpire otherwise." 
 
 He bowed his head. The idea of an umpire 
 seemed to please him. He proceeded. 
 
 "Lela was then a child, wandering in the woods, 
 herding with swine. No roof to cover her, no friend 
 but the peasants to give her a crust of bread. I saw 
 her under a tree." 
 
 Here his voice trembled; but neither the aspect 
 of his face, nor the murderous action of his hands 
 varied. 
 
 "Yes, yes," repeated Lela, who had stolen to my 
 side — speaking low, as if knitting together the threads 
 of remembrance — "Yes; he is right! I recollect it well; 
 it was a happy time ! But you are wrong in one thing, 
 Gonzago, I was not alone. Besides the ilex-trees, 
 some one with a white face came to me often. I have 
 never seen her since. She beckoned me to follow her 
 but I was afraid, and clung to the trees. She had 
 blue eyes, and long, light hair, that hung down her 
 back in curls like mine. 
 
 "I never heard her voice, but I understood her 
 without words. Something about me always made her
 
 250 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 weep. The trees understood her and wailed over her 
 at sundown, under the statue of the Satyr. It was 
 always in the evening. She went and came without a 
 sound, fading away behind the trees. I saw her at 
 many places, but oftenest at the Satyr. 
 
 "I am not afraid of you now, Gonzago," Lela went 
 on, raising her head, and fixing her grave eyes, full of 
 some mysterious assurance, upon Anzano. "You cannot 
 harm me. She watches over my life. Until you 
 spoke, I had quite forgotten her. Now, it all comes 
 back to me! No! You dare not touch me!" 
 
 The Marquis followed every word she uttered with 
 a look of terror. He no longer menaced her. He was 
 like a man stunned. 
 
 Standing there, face to face, a sudden impulse of 
 affection overcame Lela, Long she gazed at him wist- 
 fully; then, with outspread hands, she touched him. 
 
 "Oh, Gonzago! Gonzago! Be your own dear self 
 again! Do not wring my heart by your cruelty! I 
 have done nothing wrong! I have always obeyed you 
 — always, till now! 
 
 "You cannot divide me from Sigismund; no one 
 can, it is too late!" 
 
 Then, softening before the blank suffering depicted 
 in his face, again her pleading grew passionate. 
 
 "Believe me, Gonzago, ive — that is Sigismund, 
 grieves for your pain. Like me, he owes you a deep 
 debt of gratitude. Share our love, dear Gonzago. It 
 will make you happy. Now, you are not yourself. 
 By-and-bye you will forgive us." 
 
 Lela was urging her cause in tones of the most 
 pitiful supplication; her hands clasped, her head bent
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 25 1 
 
 forward— her whole attitude as though seeking to ob- 
 literate herself in the very dust. 
 
 "Dear, dear Gonzago, forgive us! Forgive your 
 little Lela! Forgive us hoih—for zve are one.'" 
 
 At this moment, the dark figure of Sigismund rose 
 up in the fading light.
 
 252 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "At last! At last! Oh, Sigismund!" With a 
 happy cry, Lela rushed forward, as he pushed his way 
 rapidly through the intervening shrubs; crashing through 
 the palms and the orange trees in his haste. 
 
 As they met midway, a shaft of sunshine — the last 
 expiring effort of the once glorious day — struck down- 
 Avards from a bank of clouds, concentrating itself like 
 a pale flame upon their heads. 
 
 "Yes, my Lela, I am come. It is Don Antonio's 
 fault that I have been delayed. What has happened?" 
 he added, in a low anxious voice, looking towards his 
 brother, concealed by the rich foliage. "Have you 
 told him?— does he know?" 
 
 "Oh, my love — my love!" answered Lela, clinging 
 to him, "Be gentle with him, for my sake! I fear I 
 have done him a great wrong " 
 
 "Yes, Lela, I will be gentle; but he must know 
 the truth." 
 
 Then advancing, "Gonzago! Lela is my wife! 
 We were married this morning! I am come to take 
 her away. Will you say no word of forgiveness to us 
 before we go?" 
 
 At the first sight of Sigismund, the Marquis had 
 tottered backwards to where a broad-leaved catalpa 
 rose up like a slender pillar out of the grass. By the 
 aid of the trunk he steadied himself, then, with a
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 253 
 
 mighty effort, stood erect and still, his ashen lips 
 parted , his far-off eyes vaguely resting upon Lela and 
 Sigismund with a vacant stare. 
 
 He essayed to speak, but no voice came. Then 
 he raised one tremulous hand, and pointed with a 
 thin, bony finger towards the front of the old factory, 
 over which the shifting shadows fell like a pall. 
 
 "Hush," he murmured, in a scarcely audible 
 whisper. "Hush! The dead! Do you not hear them? 
 The Cardinal — her mother — " pointing to Lela; "Sigis- 
 mund, you would not surely boast of your crime in 
 the presence of the dead?" 
 
 Sigismund shuddered. "Great God! His reason 
 is utterly gone! Mr. Anstruther! Lela! has my brother 
 been long like this?" 
 
 Lela whispered something into his ear. 
 That she would conceal from him what had really 
 occurred, I felt certain. Again Sigismund turned, full 
 of grief, towards Anzano. 
 
 "Gonzago! rouse yourself! Be a man!" 
 As he spoke, he touched his brother gently on the 
 shoulder. The Marquis gathered himself together with 
 horror. 
 
 "She comes! She is at hand! — I know it — I feel 
 it! Her feet are on the stairs — her long robe sweeps 
 the pavement! He is there, also — the villain! Enter 
 that door, and you will see them, on the upper floor, 
 as I saw them when I first came! O God! The 
 horror of it lighted a fire in my brain, that burns until 
 it will consume me! Oh! I am sick — sick with the 
 long agony! She cursed me! — There, with her white 
 lips, flinging about her yellow hair! She cursed me 
 for his crime! The burr, as of a mill wheel, sounded
 
 2 54 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 in my ears — the blackness of eternal night encompassed 
 me! I swooned. You, Lela " 
 
 Lela cowered, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " — Are her child! A curse beyond all curses 
 rests upon your birth!" 
 
 "Brother, brother!" broke in Sigismund, endeavour- 
 ing to silence him, but the torrent of his pent-up 
 passion rushed on with uncontrollable frenzy. 
 
 "And you live! And Sigismund has made you 
 his wife — Sigismund, for whom I have suffered!" 
 
 Then, fixing his awful eyes upon Lela — "Destroyer 
 of my house! Vain, silly fool, that has stepped be- 
 tween Anzano Gonzago and the fixed decrees of fate! 
 Hear me ! None of our tainted stock shall rise up to 
 call you mother! Take this for your portion. The 
 name you dishonour shall die with you!" 
 
 "No — by Heaven! It shall live!" burst from Sigis- 
 mund, who could contain himself no longer. "Live, 
 and through her!" 
 
 Drawing Lela to him proudly — poor Lela, who had 
 shrunk back, appalled at the Marquis' malediction — 
 he raised her downcast head, and folded her fondly 
 in his encircling arms. 
 
 "God grant, Anzano — " he spoke with solemn 
 emphasis — "that your reason may return to you! I 
 married Lela because I loved herj I shall love her to 
 the end. Of fate I know nothing, nor of any doom, nor 
 crime, however foul, that can move me to part from her. 
 Her pure nature is as unsullied by sin as is a diamond 
 by the mire and slime in which it lay concealed." 
 
 "Brother," he added, after a pause which marked 
 the working of strong emotion, "let that thought com- 
 fort you. Let us part friends,"
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 255 
 
 To this address the Marquis makes no sign, nor 
 does he notice the hand which Sigismund extends to- 
 Avards him. I do not think he so much as saw it. 
 Blank despair is in every line of his countenance, as 
 the knowledge that Lela and his brother are ir- 
 revocably united, reaches his imperfect sense. 
 
 At this moment a flash of lightning, so intense 
 that, for an instant, it lit up the woods and mountains 
 into the semblance of a universal conflagration, struck 
 down, followed by a continuous roar of thunder. 
 
 Sigismund seizes Lela's hand. 
 
 "Come, Lela, we must go! A terrible storm is 
 upon us. We shall hardly have time to reach Don 
 AJitonio's house. Do not look so frightened, love," 
 caressing her cheek, from which all colour had fled. 
 "My brother's words are hard to bear, but believe me, 
 at this moment he does not know what he says." 
 
 "I do not care for the storm," is Lela's answer. 
 "I am used to storms. But I do not like to leave him. 
 What does he mean? Tell me," and she drew herself 
 back, as Sigismund tries to lead her onwards. "Is it 
 all about me? I cannot understand it. He used to 
 be so proud of me. Do you think he will ever be 
 himself again?" 
 
 "I will tell you what I think another time, my Lela, 
 not now. Mr. Anstruther." And he extends his hand 
 to me. "Farewell! You will remain and take care of 
 my brother, I trust. Our presence can only serve to 
 madden him." 
 
 "Yes," I reply. "For the present I will remain." 
 
 Still Lela lingers, she cannot bring herself to leave 
 Gonzago. Abundant tears are gathering in her eyes. 
 
 "It must be, darling," insists Sigismund, in that
 
 256 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 melting voice of his, which would tlirill responsive in 
 any woman's ears. "Bear it bravely. Out of the ilex- 
 woods you came to me, alone, and into them we will 
 return together. Come, Lela, my beloved, you must 
 forget all but me." 
 
 Even then, had Gonzago, by the smallest sign, 
 shown himself conscious of her presence, I saw by her 
 looks she would have flown to him. But there was no 
 recognition. 
 
 Slowly, as those weighted with a great joy, which 
 robs them of all utterance, and leaves them beggared 
 of everything but a charmed silence, Sigismund and 
 Lela passed down the garden paths, over their heads 
 the delicate tracery of the ilex-woods, darkening each 
 moment in the universal gloom, the pampas-grass 
 shaking its feathery spears, and the orange-blossoms 
 scattering white petals in the wild wind. 
 
 With one of those abrupt, but graceful movements 
 peculiar to herself, Lela turns to me as I followed 
 them to the entrance-gate, and presses her caressing 
 fingers on my arm. 
 
 "Take care of him, IVIr. Anstruther," she says, with 
 a long glance at the Marquis immovable on the same 
 spot. "I entreat you to take care of him. It goes to 
 my very heart to leave him. He has been very strange 
 at times, but never like this. I am so glad you are 
 here. You are a good man, you understand him." 
 
 Then, with her head close to mine, she whispers 
 in my ear. 
 
 "I shall always remember that you saved my life. 
 But keep that a secret, a dead secret. I would not
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 257 
 
 have him'''' (here a glance at Sigismund), know it for 
 the world." 
 
 Then louder. 
 
 "When Gonzago recovers, try to make him forgive 
 us. I shall never be happy without that. Then we 
 will come back and live with him again." 
 
 Sigismund did not speak, but his eyes endorse all 
 that Lela says, except the notion of returning to Sant' 
 Agata. At that he shakes his head resolutely. 
 
 I cannot answer her. My heart is full. If they 
 are happy, it is happiness bought at the price of the 
 reason, if not of the life, of my dear friend. Spite of 
 my warm sympathy for them, I cannot forget this. 
 
 A sudden roar of the tempest, and another flash 
 of almost blinding lightning shortens the moment of 
 parting. 
 
 Hastily drawing away Lela, Sigismund pushes re- 
 solutely forward, out of the iron gates, with their 
 mediaeval carving, into the avenue beyond, bordered 
 by colossal statues. 
 
 "And so the ilex-trees were not false, after all," I 
 hear Lela say, as she hurries down the hill on those 
 eager feet of hers; her clear voice echoing back, spite 
 of the wind. 
 
 "You don't know what happened in the wood 
 while I was waiting for you, Sigismund, I will never 
 tell, never." 
 
 A joyous laugh follows. It is abruptly checked; 
 probably by a kiss. 
 
 "What! secrets from me already, Lela?" I hear 
 him say. 
 
 "Yes, dear, all sorts of secrets" (laughing). "But 
 
 The Red Cardinal. 1 7
 
 258 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 the trees brought you back to me at hast! The deaf 
 old trees!" 
 
 A portentous peal of thunder drowns her voice, 
 and I hear no more. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Slowly I return. 
 
 The Marquis still stands immovable before the long, 
 low front of that fatal building. From his white face 
 all vestige of passion has departed. Hope, fear, menace, 
 and that keen desire of vengeance — all gone! Only 
 his rapt look and the position of his hand behind his 
 ear, tells me that in the wild confusion of the blast 
 which whistles round, he is conscious of the unseen 
 presence that haunts him. 
 
 A sickness of the heart steals over me as I look 
 at him. If not Avholly mad, he is the slave of hallu- 
 cinations too shadowy to be combated by any argu- 
 ment. Of what use have I been to him? Of what 
 use can I be? 
 
 But I have promised to remain. 
 
 Happen what will, I will keep my word. 
 
 Hitherto I have felt no fear. Now, I confess he 
 terrifies me! More than terrifies! He is actually in- 
 fecting me with the insane influences of his own 
 fantastic brain. 
 
 Is that low-roofed house before me really visited, 
 as he imagines, by the spirits of the dead? Are those 
 terrible scenes reproduced in that up])er chamber? 
 Has the Marquis a sense more than 1? Is he the
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 259 
 
 maniac? Or am I the fool? The doubt makes my 
 
 brain reel, 
 
 ***** 
 
 I am quickly recalled to the outer world by the 
 constantly recurring thunder. Not in one continuous 
 roll, but flung as it were in a series of reverberations 
 from flank to flank of the encircling mountains, now- 
 near, now distant, till it loses itself in a parting rattle, 
 loud and distinct as a discharge of artillery. 
 
 Incessant flashes of lightning increase the horror 
 of the scene. Each flash revealing unknown recesses of 
 the wood, in the full glare of a white sepulchral light. 
 
 Heavy drops of rain are now falling, and the ever 
 raging wind bursts forth with renewed fury. 
 
 There are moments when it almost lifts me from 
 my feet. 
 
 A whirlwind has, apparently, collected its force in 
 the mountains near; for there are frequent and violent 
 alternations in the direction of the wind; and the ex- 
 ceeding density of the clouds, which hang almost upon 
 the roof and central tower of the villa, does not 
 prevent my perceiving the velocity with which they fly. 
 
 I force myself to approach Gonzago. I touch his 
 cold hand. 
 
 "Come, Anzano!" I say. "Come under shelter — 
 at once — at once!" 
 
 He permits me to lead him unresistingly towards 
 the house. With the same mute helplessness he allows 
 me to seat him under the colonnade. The touch of 
 his poor stricken fingers — the desolation of his ca- 
 daverous face — recall me to my better self. 
 
 I bend over him and try to chafe his limbs into a 
 little warmth.
 
 26o THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 But the play of incessant lightning soon renders 
 our position perilous. 
 
 "Anzano!" (I am leaning over him. I can scarcely 
 hear my own voice and am drenched by the driving rain.) 
 
 "Come into the house! The storm is increasing!" 
 
 I seem to be addressing a corpse. 
 
 "You here!" he says at last, in a feeble voice, 
 gazing up at me with a glance of transient recognition. 
 
 "You here! Sigismund is gone and " He cannot 
 
 bring himself to pronounce Lela's name. 
 
 "I thought you were gone also! Is it not best that 
 I should meet my fate alone?" 
 
 "What fate, Anzano? For the love of God, dis- 
 miss these fancies. We are all under the mercy of 
 God. Let your old friend comfort you!" 
 
 He shakes his head. A faint smile passes for an 
 instant over his face. He presses my hand, then lets 
 it fall, as if from henceforth every link between us is 
 severed, 
 
 "I thank you, Lucius! As a dying man I thank 
 you. The time is short; my earthly probation is ended. 
 Oh, that death could come to me without the horror 
 of that form!" 
 
 A momentary lull has permitted me to hear these 
 words. The next instant, the storm reaches its climax. 
 An awful clap of thunder crashes over the house. A 
 dense cloud of dust and earth whirls in the air. A 
 terrific clatter strikes upon the ear, as if shields of 
 brass have fallen upon a floor of iron. 
 
 A thunderbolt has fallen. Where? I can see no- 
 thing. 
 
 But for the lightning, which plays around, we 
 should be plunged in absolute darkness.
 
 .THE RED CARDINAL. '2^1 
 
 I spring to my feet. I rush to Anzano, and by- 
 sheer force drag him into the hall, 
 
 Again the thunder booms and rattles. Again the 
 wind shrieks and howls, then, crashing through the 
 trees, screams itself hoarse among the rocks, detaching 
 loose stones and fragments, that roll down with hor- 
 rific din. 
 
 A heart rending cry from the Marquis rises shrill 
 above the roar. 
 
 "I see it! I see it! That horrid wound! Hide it 
 — hide it! I know it! On the neck, under the falling 
 hair! He did it! And the blood ran down over the 
 rich dress in which he clothed you — to meet his eye 
 — the fiend! Gaze not on me with those steely orbs! 
 I tried to kill her! It was too late; she is Sigismund's 
 wife! My life" (Here he raises his hands in agonised 
 supplication) "My life for hers! I can but give my 
 life!—" 
 
 "Anzano!" I shout into his ear, drawing him 
 backwards — "There is nothing— nothing." 
 
 "Nothing!" he screams, tearing himself from my 
 grasp, and pointing with raised arms into the darkened 
 hall, fitfully visible in the quickly recurring lightning. 
 Nothing, when she stands there — opening those long 
 closed wounds! Nothing! Ha-ha-ha!" 
 
 It is the laughter of frenzy! As the hoarse shout 
 dies away in long-drawn echoes, he staggers to his 
 feet. 
 
 The next moment he lies prostrate on the floor. 
 
 Was it death — or was it a death-like swoon? I 
 bore him into his ancestral hall, and laid him on the 
 marble pavement. As I propped up his head against 
 the wall, I perceived that I had accidentally placed
 
 262 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 him under the emblazoned coat of arms of the Gon- 
 zagos. The Cardinal's red hat, buffeted by the wind, 
 swayed over him. 
 
 I tore at the first bell I could find. Its deep note 
 blended with the tempest like an articulate tongue. 
 (My imagination was so wrought upon that the simplest 
 details came to me fraught with the weight of a mystic 
 significance.) 
 
 From one of the sculptured doors opening into the 
 hall, appeared Narcissus, followed by the major-domo. 
 With a silent gesture, I showed them where their 
 master lay. The major-domo wrung his hands. Nar- 
 cissus, not cheerful now, but ready-witted and active 
 knelt down beside him. 
 
 "What is to be done?" I asked, while the man 
 busied himself in unfastening his master's cravat and 
 shirt collar. 
 
 "Leave him to me, signore, leave him to me — I 
 understand his Excellency. He has swooned before." 
 
 "Is Don Antonio in the house?" 
 
 "No," answered the major-domo, coming to the 
 assistance of Narcissus, whose light fingers seemed 
 everywhere at once. 
 
 Together the two servants raised him in their 
 arms. I could not bear to look at his death-like face. 
 
 "We will take him to his own room. Excellency," 
 said Narcissus. "It is on the ground floor." 
 
 I made a motion to follow them. 
 
 "His Excellency will excuse my saying that the 
 noble marquis had belter be left to me alone," re- 
 marked Narcissus. "This is a worse swoon than usual. 
 It is always difficult to deal with him when he first 
 comes to. Whatever subject was uppermost in his
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 263 
 
 mind when he became insensible is sure to remain. I 
 know what to do. He may pass into a deep sleep," 
 added he, looking into his master's glassy eyes, so 
 fixed and corpse-like. (Alas! those eyes haunt me 
 while I write, terrible witnesses of the troubled soul 
 within.) 
 
 "A deep sleep will be best of all," continued the 
 undaunted Narcissus. " I must be alone with him, or 
 he may do himself some injury." 
 
 "And you, Narcissus?" I asked, "have you no 
 fear?" 
 
 "None in the world, Excellency." Here a gleam 
 of his natural cheerfulness reappeared. "Only leave 
 the Marquis to me; I understand him." 
 
 Something of Narcissus' hopefulness penetrated even 
 to me. With a feeling of infinite relief, I saw my poor 
 friend borne into his room, and placed on a couch. 
 
 "If the Marquis asks for me when he revives," I 
 said, "call me at once. I shall not be far off." 
 
 I left the room, closing the door carefully after 
 me. As I did so, I noticed that Narcissus opened 
 both the sashes of the windows, raised but a few 
 inches above the level of the garden, in order to admit 
 the air. 
 
 The violence of the storm had abated. Abundant 
 rain was falling, and although the thunder had not 
 altogether ceased, it was gradually dying away, as it 
 had come, among the depths of distant mountains. 
 The wind too, had ceased. 
 
 The stillness of the house was appalling. Every 
 little crack in the wood-work, the buzz of a fly, the 
 hum of a mosquito, multiplied itself infinitely.
 
 264 THE RED cardinal; 
 
 My ears seemed full of noises; the effect, probably, 
 of the turmoil of the recent tornado. Still, I could 
 have believed that there was a muttering of voices from 
 behind the panels, and that shadowy footsteps passed 
 upon the stairs, stopping when I stopped, and moving 
 when I moved. 
 
 From remote parts of the house seemed to issue, 
 indistinctly indeed, but still audibly, low wails, mixed 
 up with the rattling of windows, and the various 
 draughts and currents driving into that spacious man- 
 sion, blending confusedly in my brain, until I could 
 believe that within, as well as without, that forest 
 domain, there hung an atmosphere peculiar to itself — 
 with no affinity to the pure air of Heaven, but which 
 had reeked up from the blackness of those contorted 
 trees — like a pestilent vapour. 
 
 All this time I was slowly ascending the flight of 
 stairs that I had first mounted in company with my 
 friend. The upper portion was lost in the shadows of 
 the waning day. 
 
 Without explaining what actuated me, I find my- 
 self stopping on the landing of the first floor, and 
 turning the handle of the door leading to the state 
 rooms. 
 
 I hurry past the spot where I knew the portrait of 
 the Cardinal was hung (everything connected with that 
 man seemed fraught with some horrible significance), 
 and find myself within the saloon where I had first 
 seen Lela. 
 
 Midway, on the brilliant scagliola floor, I pause 
 to ask myself "Why had I come?" At the same mo- 
 ment, my eye falls on the thick tapestry hangings of
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 265 
 
 the door before which the Marquis had placed himself, 
 forbidding me to proceed. 
 
 Putting aside those hangings, I stand in a vaulted 
 hall of majestic proportions; a few scattered rays of 
 reddened light penetrate through the heavy draperies 
 of a lofty range of windows, repeating themselves upon 
 a polished floor. 
 
 At the first glance, the walls seem to me lined 
 with gold. Every nick and granny filled with glitter- 
 ing weapons — swords, daggers, sabres, shields and 
 knives, set with inestimable jewels; Eastern ornaments 
 in rude barbaric chasings; Venetian filigree, fine as 
 from silken looms; Gothic drinking bowls; pokuls 
 dazzling with sapphires and diamonds; cups of jade 
 and chrysoprase; Indian monsters with jewelled eyes; 
 idols from Egypt. 
 
 Pennons and banners hang suspended from the 
 solid beams of the ceiling — some tattered and soiled 
 with shot and smoke — others new and many-coloured; 
 under each, emblazoned shields and coronets and 
 mitres, ablaze with gems. 
 
 My eyes, still struggling to penetrate into the 
 remoter recesses of the space, fall upon quaint patterns 
 of oriental tapestry, clothing the lower walls, up to the 
 marvellous carving of a gigantic screen, dividing a 
 sanctum sanctorum from the lower hall. Before the 
 screen stands a heavy panelled table — around, twelve 
 antique chairs ranged in exact order, awaiting — as it 
 seemed — the dignified forms of twelve richly robed 
 councillors. 
 
 Standing there, I feel that I breathe the monu- 
 mental atmosphere of the past; and that some me-
 
 266 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 morial will present itself to me, to reveal for what 
 purpose this historic chamber was designed. 
 
 My instinct does not deceive me. 
 
 Advancing cautiously along the slippery floor, my 
 eyes gradually penetrate the dark shadows within the 
 screen; I behold a lofty canopy of purple velvet, from 
 which hang massive fringes and tassels of pearls and 
 gold; the inside wrought in a gorgeous confusion of 
 cyphers, coats of arms and arabesques, repeated in 
 the glowing tints of many-hued needlework. An 
 eastern carpet lies before an estrade raised on steps, 
 and an outer railing guards the sacred space. 
 
 These are but accessories, to which I pay only 
 passing attention. As my eyes grow more familiar 
 with the uncertain light, they concentrate themselves 
 on a golden chair, superbly chased, placed on the 
 estrade. 
 
 Upon it sits a life-sized figure ! Some horrible 
 familiarity of outline and aspect, thrill through me as 
 I gaze. 
 
 Where have I seen that florid face? Those full, 
 black, prominent eyes? Those proud, repulsive fea- 
 tures? 
 
 At length the truth bursts upon me. It is the ef- 
 figy of Cardinal Gonzago! 
 
 A deep red collar hangs over a tunic of whitest 
 
 lace; the heavy folds of the ensanguined robe drape 
 
 round him like blood; on his head is a scarlet hat, 
 
 and in his jewelled finger he clasps a ring! 
 ***** 
 
 I rush from that foul presence, I know not whither; 
 my feet carry me into the open air. Under the free 
 arch of Heaven I breathe again.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 267 
 
 Without, all is calm. A rising mist, perfumed by 
 the scent of herbs and flowers, floats around me. 
 Each blade of grass, every leaf and twig — even the 
 gravel on the path, glitters into gems. How sweetly 
 blows the cool breeze of evening after the storm ! How 
 softly the pale blue of the heavens gilds itself into the 
 warm glow of sunset! 
 
 I follow the broad avenue, bordered by the ilex- 
 cut hedges and the tall statues, along which Lela and 
 Sigismund had so lately passed, and descend into the 
 darkening glades of the solemn ilex-woods. The 
 funereal foliage gathers over my head — the twisted 
 boughs close in a leafy labyrinth above. Some trees, 
 uprooted by the storm, have fallen across the road; 
 others thrust themselves upwards in pollarded knots, 
 from which a number of small shoots issue, pointing 
 as with extended fingers. 
 
 Looking at these ilex-woods thus, by daylight, 
 there is a pathetic humanity about them, an appealing 
 sorrow, absolutely appalling. 
 
 The black roots, like overstrained muscles, rise up, 
 dragging the rocky soil into ridges and furrows, and 
 great mossy stones are strewn about, turning the sur- 
 face of the ground into the roughness of a graveyard. 
 
 Glad once more to feel the elasticity of my limbs, 
 I step briskly along the terraced road, when a huge 
 white object half embedded in the earth, arrests me. 
 
 I stoop to examine it. It is the battered head of 
 the Satyr — the horns and shaggy hair uppermost! The 
 gaping mouth, the blackened cavities for eyes, the 
 lines which had once been nose and lips, grin up at 
 me with a contorted leer. 
 
 Both the head and the severed neck are hollow.
 
 268 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Doubtless, during the storm, it had been wrenched 
 from the trunk, and had fallen at the moment I noted 
 that tremendous din. 
 
 When the thunderbolt fell, it had struck the Satyr! 
 
 Now I am within the mystic circle of the trees — 
 the scene of Gigia's capture — of Lela's innocent in- 
 cantations! It is evident that the storm has spent its 
 utmost fury on this particular spot. The ground is 
 strewn with rent-off branches — and many entire trees, 
 torn up by the roots, lie encumbering the open space. 
 
 One rotten, withered ilex, twisting aloft fantastic 
 boughs, rests across the marble fluting of the pedestal; 
 some dry fragments have fallen from it and crumble on 
 the earth, like bones. On the deep-red earth lies a 
 dark, huddled-up heap. My eye travels quickly over it. 
 
 I stand riveted, in breathless horror! Great God! 
 It is the body of Gonzago! His rigid face turned to 
 the sky — his glazed eye meeting mine with a scowl. 
 
 Already the jaw had fallen, leaving deep hollows 
 in the thin, white cheeks, and the prominent eye- 
 brows add terror to the pupils of the widely distended 
 eyes. 
 
 He lies Avithin the folds of a dark mantle — his 
 arms outstretched, as if death had struck him in the 
 act of lifting them upwards. 
 
 In his hand, clutched with the grip of death, are 
 a few threads of yellow hair. As I touch them, they 
 shrivel and drop into a pale dust. 
 
 Had that haunting Presence decoyed him under 
 the shadow of the Satyr to die? Or, had he wandered 
 down alone, and been seized with another swoon, from 
 which he had passed into death without awakening? 
 Who can tell?
 
 THE RED CARDINAL, 269 
 
 I carefully examine his body. There is no indica- 
 tion of violence — none, save two small purple marks 
 (such as the pressure of two fingers might cause), low 
 down in the throat, just over the wind-pipe. 
 
 I dare not ask myself what these marks betoken. 
 Had he not told me of another life — that of his 
 affianced bride, Gemma Malvoti — passing away like 
 this, leaving behind, evidence similar, and as inexpli- 
 cable? "A life for a Ife," he had said — not Lela's, 
 but his own. 
 
 The drops of sweat gather on my brow, as I gaze 
 down at him. Presently, those drops pour down, like 
 rain, over my face. I have to cling to the nearest tree, 
 or I, too, should fall prostrate, over the dead body of 
 my friend.
 
 THE RED CARDINAL.- 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 That night we laid him in his last rest, where he 
 had fallen, within the mystic circle of the ilex-trees. 
 
 No consecrated soil was permitted to receive the 
 mortal remains of one of the noblest beings God ever 
 created. 
 
 Don Antonio would hear of no compromise on the 
 point of burial. 
 
 The Marquis Gonzago had died without the sacra- 
 ments; that was enough for him. If his death were 
 natural, if it were self-inflicted, or if some diabolical 
 agency had hastened it, mattered not to the ecclesiastic. 
 
 He, whose whole misguided existence had been an 
 heroic sacrifice for others, was condemned to the 
 burial of a dog! While I write these words — long 
 after the events occurred — tears blind my eyes. My 
 poor Anzano! 
 
 It was as I surmised. Narcissus left his master 
 for a brief space — as he supposed, in a deep and 
 tranquil sleep. 
 
 When he returned, he was gone. He had escaped 
 by the open window. Either his sleep had been 
 feigned, and his troubled spirit had voluntarily driven 
 him to seek the evil shadow of the Satyr, where he 
 had suddenly fallen down and died, or he had been 
 decoyed by some Satanic influence to a silent and 
 horrible death. 
 
 Who can say?
 
 THE RED CARDINAL. 2"] I 
 
 He is gone, and I am left to mourn him. 
 ***** 
 
 Sigismund and Lela live in the Gonzago Palazzo, 
 at Siena. An heir has been born to the ancient 
 name, within the ancestral walls. Lela, in her fantastic 
 gratitude, has named the child after me and my dead 
 friend. It is fortunate that I possess a Latinised ap- 
 pellation to place beside so grandiose a patronymic of 
 classic Italy. Had it been otherwise, I should never 
 have consented to this arrangement. 
 
 Anzano, Lucius is not so bad after all. 
 
 We are still to have some play upon these names 
 when the next little stranger appears. 
 
 Sigismund submits to all this; pulling at his silky 
 beard with a smile. Lela will never lose the nymph- 
 like charm which her bringing-up in the woods im- 
 parted to her. She will never alter her mind about 
 Sigismund, who is, if possible, handsomer and cer- 
 tainly more majestic than ever, now that the honours 
 of his house have fallen upon him. 
 
 I am under a solemn promise to visit them every 
 year in the season of the '■'■villeggiatura" when the 
 grapes are ripe, and the summer heat is modified. 
 But I do not always keep my word. 
 
 A magnificent cenotaph has been erected by Sigis- 
 mund over his brother's grave. People come from far 
 and wide to visit it. Every vestige of the ill-omened 
 statue of the Satyr is swept away. The terraced road 
 winds the forest as before, but that mystic circle of 
 ilex-trees, that waved over the marble seat where the 
 dead mother and her unknown child sat weaving gar- 
 lands, has disappeared, and a funereal garden been 
 planted in its stead.
 
 272 THE RED CARDINAL. 
 
 Once a year, Sigismund and Lela visit Sant* 
 Agata, on the anniversary of Anzano's death, to lay 
 fresh flowers on his lonely tomb. On the richly carved 
 marble, setting forth his age and his honours, Sigis- 
 mund has, at my suggestion, had graven Anzano's 
 favourite quotation from the CEdipus Tyrannus of 
 Sophocles: — 
 
 "Pronounce no mortal happy, until he has passed 
 the boundary of life, untouched by suffering." 
 
 No one, since Gonzago's death, inhabits the villa. 
 Even Lela has bid a final farewell to her friends the 
 ilex -trees; but she affirms that their spirit still 
 follows her. 
 
 I hear a voice asking after my nephew Frederick 
 Stanley. 
 
 "Thank you, whoever you are." Frederick was so 
 disgusted with his visit to Italy, that no spot is too 
 cold, no coast too arid, to suit his fancy. If he could 
 only spend his vacations at the North Pole, he would 
 be perfectly content, 
 
 "No infernal mysteries there, uncle Lucius," he 
 says. "All plain sailing and above board." 
 
 Recent explorations would suggest that plain sail- 
 ing and the North Pole are hardly synonymous. But 
 closeness of reasoning was never a characteristic of my 
 impressionable nephew. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 4013 Volumes. 402 British, 54 American Authors. 
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 — Price 1 M. 60 Pf. or 2 Fr. per Volume. — 
 
 Adams, Rev. W., j 1848. 
 Sacred AUesrories i v. 
 
 t 1847. 
 
 — The Mother's 
 
 Aguilar, Grace, 
 Home Influence 2 v. 
 Recompense 2 v. 
 
 Aide, Hamilton. 
 Rita IV. — Carr of Carrlyon 2 v. — The 
 Marstons2 V. — In that State of Life i v. — 
 Morals and Mysteries i v. — Penmddocke 
 2 V. — "A nine Days' Wonder" i v. — 
 Poet and Peer 2 v. — Introduced to Society 
 
 1 V. 
 
 Ainsworth,W. Harrison, j 1882. 
 
 Windsor Castle i v. — Saint James's i v. 
 — Jack Sheppard (with Portrait) i v. — 
 The Lancashire Witches 2V. — The Star- 
 Chamber 2 v. — The Flitch of Bacon i v. — 
 The Spendthrift i v. — Mervyn Clitheroe 
 
 2 V. — Ovingdean Grange i v. — The Con- 
 stable of the Tower i v. — The Lord 
 Mayor of London 2 v. — Cardinal Pole 
 2 V. — John Law 2 v. — The Spanish 
 Match 2 V. — The Constable de Bourbon 
 2 V. — Old Court 2 V. — Myddleton Pom- 
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 Hilary St. Ives 2 v. — Talbot Harland 
 
 1 V. — Tower Hill i v. — Boscobel 2 v. — 
 The Good Old Times 2 v. — Merry Eng- 
 land 2 V. — The Goldsmith's Wife 2 v. — 
 Preston Fight 2 v. — Chetwynd Calverley 
 
 2 V. — The Leaguer of Lathom 2 v. — 
 The Fall of Somerset 2 v. — Beatrice 
 Tyldesley 2 v. — Beau Nash 2 v. — Stanley 
 Brereton 2 v. 
 
 Alcott, Louisa M. (Am.), y 1888. 
 Little Women 2 v. — Little Men i v. — 
 An Old-Fashioncd Girl i v. ^ Jo's Boys 
 IV. I 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey (Am.'). 
 Marjorie Daw and other Tales i v. — 
 The Stillwater Tragedy i v. 
 
 Alexander, Mrs. (Hector), -j- 1 902. 
 A Second Life 3 V. — By Woman's Wit 
 
 1 V. — Mona's Choice 2 v. — A Life In- 
 terest 2 V. — A Crooked Path 2 v. — Blind 
 Fate 2 V. — A Woman's Heart 2 v. — For 
 His Sake 2 v. — The Snare of the Fowler 
 
 2 V. — Found Wanting 2 v. — A Ward in 
 Chancery 1 v. — A Choice of Evils 2 v. — 
 A Fight with Fate 2 v. — A Winning 
 Hazard i v. — A Golden Autumn i v. — 
 Mrs. Crichton's Creditor 1 v. — Barbara, 
 Lady's Maid and Peeress i v. — The Cost 
 of Her Pride 2 v. — Brown, V. C. i v. — 
 Through Fire to Fortune i v. — A Missing 
 Hero 1 V. — The Yellow Fiend I v. — 
 Stronger than Love 2 v. — KittyCostello i v. 
 
 Alice, Grand-Duchess of Hesse, 
 
 t 1878. 
 Letters to Her Majesty the Queen (with 
 Portrait). With a Memoir by H. R. H. 
 Princess Christian 2 v. 
 
 Alldridge, Lizzie. 
 By Love and Law z v. — The World she 
 awoke in 2 v. 
 
 Allen, Grant, j 1899. 
 The Woman who did i v. 
 
 "All for Greed," Author of 
 (Baroness de Bury). 
 All for Greed i v. — Love the Avenger 
 2 V. 
 
 Anstey, F. (Guthrie). 
 The Giant's Robe 2 v. — A Fallen Idol 
 IV. — The Pariah ", v. — The Talking
 
 Tauchmtz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Horse and other Tales i v. — Voces 
 Populi (First and Second Series) i v. — 
 The Brass Bottle i v. — A Bayard from 
 Bengal i v. — Salted Almonds i v. 
 
 : vide Mrs. Hunger- 
 
 Argles, Mrs. 
 ford 
 
 "Aristocrats, the," Author of: 
 vide Gertrude Atherton. 
 
 Arnold, Sir Edwin, f 1904. 
 The Light of Asia (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 Arnold, Matthew, f 1888. 
 
 Essays in Criticism 2 v. — Essays in Criti- 
 cism (Second Series) i v. 
 
 Atherton, Gertrude Franklin 
 
 (Am.). 
 American Wives and English Husbands 
 IV. — The Californians i v. — ■ Patience 
 Sparhawk and her Times 2 v. — Senator 
 North 2 V. — The Doomswoman i v. — The 
 Aristocrats i v. — The Splendid Idle Forties 
 IV. — The Conqueror 2 v. — A Daughter 
 of the Vine i v. — His Fortunate Grace, 
 etc. I V. — The Valiant Runaways i v. — 
 The Bell in the Fog, and Other Stories i v. 
 — The Travelling Thirds (in Spain) i v. — 
 Rezanov i v. 
 
 Austen, Jane, | 1817. 
 Sense and Sensibility i v. — Mansfield 
 Park IV. — Pride and Prejudice i v. — 
 Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion i v. — 
 limraa i v. 
 
 "Autobiographj' of Lutfullah," 
 Author of: vide E. B.Eastwick. 
 
 Avebury, Lord: vide Sir John 
 Lubbock. 
 
 Bagot, Richard. 
 A Roman Mystery 2 v. — Casting of Nets 
 2 V. — The Just and the Unjust 2 v. — • 
 Donna Diana 2 v. — Love's Proxy i v. — 
 The Passport 2 v. — Temptation 2 v. 
 
 Baring -Gould, S. 
 
 Mehalah i v. — John Herring 2 v. — 
 Court Royal 2 v. 
 
 Barker, Lady: v. Lady Broome. 
 
 Barrett, Frank. 
 The Smuggler's Secret i v. — Out of the 
 Jaws of Death 2 v. 
 
 Barrie, J. M. 
 
 Sentimental Tommy 2 v. — Margaret 
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 " Bayle's Romance, Miss," Au- 
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 Baynes, Rev. Robert H. 
 LyraAnglicana, Hymns and Sacred Songs 
 
 1 V. 
 
 Beaconsfield, Lord: vide Dis- 
 raeli. 
 
 Beaumont, Averil (Mrs. Himt). 
 Thomicroft's Model 2 v. 
 
 Bell, Currer (Charlotte Bronte — 
 Mrs. Nicholls), f 1855. 
 Jane Eyre 2 v. — Shirley 2 v. — Villette 
 
 2 V. — The Professor i v. 
 
 Bell, Ellis & Acton (Emily, 
 f 1848, and Anne, f 1849, 
 Bronte). 
 Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey 2 v. 
 
 Bellamy, Edward (Am.), j 1898, 
 Looking Backward i v. 
 
 Benedict, Frank Lee (Am.). 
 
 St. Simon's Niece 2 v. 
 
 Bennett, Arnold. 
 The Grand Babylon Hotel i v. — The 
 Gates of Wrath i v. — A Great Man i v. 
 
 — Sacred and Profane Love i v. — Whom 
 God hath joined i v. — The Ghost i v. — 
 The Grim Smile of the Five Towns i v. 
 
 Bennett, A. & Phillpotts, Eden : 
 vide Eden Phillpotts. 
 
 Benson, E. F. 
 
 Dodo IV. — The Rubicon i v. — Scarlet 
 and Hyssop i v. — The Book of Months i v. 
 
 — The Relentless City i v. — Mammon 
 & Co. 2 V. — The Challoners i v. — An 
 Act in a Backwater i v. — The Image in 
 the Sand 2 v. — The Angel of Pain 2 v. 
 
 — Paul 2 v. — The House of Defence 2 v. 
 
 Besant, Sir Walter, f 1901. 
 The Revolt of Man i v. — Dorothy 
 Forster 2 v. — Children of Gibeon 2 v. — 
 The World went very well then 2 v. — 
 Katharine Regina 1 v. — Herr Paulus 2 v. 
 
 — The Inner House i v. — The Bell of 
 St. Paul's 2 V. — For Faith and Freedom 
 2 V. — Armorel of Lyonesse 2 v. — Vcr-
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 bena Camellia Stephanotis, etc. i v. — 
 Beyond the Dreams of Avarice 2 v. — 
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 The Fourth Generation i v. — The Lady 
 of Lynn 2 v. 
 
 Besant, Sir Walter, f 1901, & 
 James Rice, ■)■ 1882. 
 The Golden Butterfly 2 v. — Ready- 
 Money ilortiboy 2 v. —By Celia's Arbour 
 2 V. 
 
 Betham- Edwards, M. 
 
 The Sylvestres i v. — Felicia 2 v. — 
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 Exchange no Robbery, and other No- 
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 IV. — For One and the World i v. — 
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 IV. — France of To-day i v. — Two Aunts 
 and a Nephew i v. — A Dream of Mil- 
 lions I v. — The Curb of Honour i v. — 
 France of To-day (Second Series) i v. — A 
 Romance of Dijon i v. — The Dream- 
 Charlotte IV. — A Storm-Rent Sliy i v. — 
 Reminiscences i v. — The Lord of the 
 Harvest i v. — Anglo-French Reminis- 
 cences, 187S— 1899 I v.— A Suffolk Court- 
 ship IV. — Mock Beggars' Hall i v. — 
 East of Paris i v.— A Humble Lover i v. — 
 BarhamBrocklebank, M.D. i v.— Martha 
 Rose, Teacher i v. 
 
 Bierce, Ambrose (Am.). 
 
 In the Midst of Life i v. 
 
 Birchenough, Mabel C. 
 
 Potsherds iv. 
 
 Bisland, E.: v. Rhoda Brough- 
 ton. 
 
 Bismarck, Prince: vide Butler. 
 Vide also Wilhelm Gorlach 
 (Collection of German Authors, 
 p. 29), and Whitman. 
 
 Black, William, f 1898. 
 A Daughter of Hcth 2 v. — In Silk At- 
 tire 2 V. — The Strange Adventures of a 
 Pliaeton 2 v. — A Princess of Thule 2 v. — 
 Kilmeny i v. — TheMaid of Killeena, and 
 other Stories i v. — Three Feathers 2 v. — 
 Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart, and other 
 Stories I v. — iLidcap Violet 2 v. — 
 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 2 v. — 
 Maclcod of Dare 2 v. — White Wings 
 
 2 v. — Sunrise 2 v. — The Beautiful Wretch 
 IV. — Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P. , in 
 the Highlands ; The Four Macnicols ; The 
 Pupil of Aurelius i v. — Shandon Bells 
 (with Portrait) 2 v. —Judith Shakespeare 
 2 V. — The Wise Women of Inverness, 
 etc. I V. — White Heather 2 v. — Sabina 
 Zembra 2 v. — The Strange Adventures 
 of a House-Boat 2 v. — In Far Lochaber 
 2 V. — The New Prince Fortunatus 2 v. — 
 Stand Fast, Craig-Royston ! 2 v. — Donald 
 Ross of Heimra 2 v. — The Magic Ink, 
 
 and other Tales i v Wolfenberg 2 v. — 
 
 The Handsome Humes 2 v. — Highland 
 Cousins 2 V. — Briseis 2 v. — ^Wild Eelin 2 v. 
 
 "Black -Box Murder, the," 
 Author of. 
 The Black-Box Murder i v. 
 
 Blackmore, Richard Doddridge, 
 
 f 1900. 
 Alice Lorraine 2 v. — Mary Anerley 3 v. 
 ^ Christowell 2 v. — Tommy Upmore 
 2 V. — Perlycross 2 v. 
 
 "Blackwood." 
 Tales from "Blackwood" (First Series) 
 I v.— Tales from "Blackwood" (Second 
 Series) i v. 
 
 Blagden, Isa, \ 1873. 
 The Woman I loved, and the Woman 
 who loved me; A Tuscan Wedding i v. 
 
 Blessington, Countess of (Mar- 
 guerite Gardiner), \ 1849. 
 Meredith i v. — Strathern 2 v. — Me- 
 moirs of a Femme de Chambro i v. — 
 ]\L-irmaduke Herbert 2 v. — Country 
 Quarters (with Portrait) 2 v. 
 
 Bloomfield, Baroness. 
 
 Reminiscences of Court and Diplomatic 
 Life (with the Portrait of Pier Majesty 
 the Queen) 2 v. 
 
 Boldrewood, Rolf. 
 Robbery under Arms 2 v. 
 
 Nevermora 
 
 Braddon, Miss (Mrs. Maxwell). 
 Lady Audley's Secret 2 v. — Aurora 
 Floyd 2 V. — Eleanor's Victory 2 v. — Jolm 
 :Marchmont's Legacy 2 v. — Henry Dun- 
 bar 2 V. — The Doctor's Wife 2 v. — 
 Only a Clod 2 v. — Sir Jasper's Tenant 
 2 V. — The Lady's Mile 2 V. — Rupert God-
 
 Tatichfiitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 5 
 
 win 2 V. — Dead-Sea Fruit 2 v. — Run to 
 Earth 2 v. — Fenton's Quest 2 v. — The 
 Lovels of Arden 2 v. — Strangers and 
 Pilfjrims 2 v. — Lucius Davoren 3 V. — 
 Taken at the Flood 3 V. — Lost for Love 
 2 V. — AStrange World 2 v. — Hostages 
 to Fortune 2 v. — Dead Men's Shoes 
 
 2 V. — Joshua Haggard's Daughter 2 v. — 
 WeaversandWeft i v. — In GreatWaters, 
 and other Tales i v. — An Open V'erdict 
 
 3 V. — Vixen 3 V. — The Cloven Foot 3 v. 
 
 — The Story of Barbara 2 v. — Just as I 
 am 2 V. — Asphodel 3 V. — Mount Royal 
 2 V. — The Golden Calf 2 v. — Flower and 
 Weed IV. — Phantom Fortune 3 V. — 
 Under the Red Flag i v. — Ishmacl 3 v. 
 
 — Wyllard's Weird 3 V. — One Thing 
 Needful 2 V. — Cut by the County i v. — 
 Like and Unlike 2 v. — The Fatal Tliree 
 2 V. — The Day will come 2 v. — One 
 Life, One Love 2 v. — Gerard 2 v. — 
 The Venetians 2 v. — All along the River 
 2 v. — Thou art the Man 2 v. — The Christ- 
 mas Hirelings, etc. i v. — Sons of Fire 
 2 V. — London Pride 2 v. — Rough Justice 
 2 V. — In High Places 2 v. — Plis Darling 
 Sin IV. — The Infidel 2 v. — ■ The Conflict 
 2 V. — The Rose of Life 2 v. — Dead Love 
 has Chains i v. 
 
 Brassey, Lady, j- 18S7. 
 A Voyage in the "Sunbeam" 2 v. — 
 Sunshine and Storm in the East 2 v. — In 
 the Trades, the Tropics and the Roaring 
 Forties 2 v. 
 
 "Bread -Winners, the," Author 
 of (Am.). 
 The Bread -Winners i v. 
 
 Bret Harte: vide Harte. 
 
 Brock, Rev. William, y 1875. 
 Sir Henry Havelock, K. C. B. i v. 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte: vide Currer 
 Bell. 
 
 Bronte, Emily & Anne: vide 
 Ellis & Acton Bell. 
 
 Brooks, Shirley, f 1874. 
 The Silver Cord 3 V. — Sooner or Later 
 
 Broome, Lady (Lady Barker). 
 Station Life in New Zealand 1 v. — 
 Station Amusements in New Zealand 
 IV. — A Year's Housekeeping in South 
 
 Africa i v. — Letters to Guy, and A Dis- 
 tant Shore — Rodrigues i v. — Colonial 
 Memories i v. 
 
 Broughton, Rhoda. 
 Cometh up as a Flower i v. — Not 
 wisely, but too well 2 v. — Red as a Rose 
 is She 2 V. — Tales for Christmas Eve 
 IV. — Nancy 2 v — Joan 2 v. — Second 
 Thoughts 2 v. — Belinda 2 v. — Doctor 
 Cupid 2 V. — Alas 1 2 v. — Mrs. Bligh 
 IV. — A Beginner i v. — Scylla or 
 Charybdis? i v. — Dear Faustina i v. — 
 The Game and the Candle i v. — Foes in 
 Law IV. — Lavinia i v. 
 
 Broughton, Rhoda, & Elizabeth 
 Bisland. 
 A Widower Indeed i v. 
 
 Brown, John, -j- 1882. 
 Rab and his Friends, and other Papers i v. 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 
 
 t 1861. 
 
 A Selection from her Poetry (with Por- 
 trait) IV. — Aurora Leigh i v. 
 
 Browning, Robert, f 1889. 
 Poetical Works (with Portrait) 4 v. 
 
 Bullen, Frank T. 
 The Cruise of the " Cachalot " 2 v. 
 
 Bulwer, Edward, Lord Lytton, 
 
 t 1873- 
 Pelham (with Portrait) 1 v. — Eugene 
 Aram l v. — Paul Clifford i v. — Zanoni 
 IV. — The Last Days of Pompeii i v. — 
 The Disowned i v. — • Ernest ilaltr;ivers 
 IV. — Alice IV. — Eva, and The Pilgrims 
 of the Rhine i v. — Devereux i v. — 
 Godolphin and Falkland i v. — Rienzi 
 IV. — Night and Morning i v. — The Last 
 of the Barons 2 v. — Athens 2 v. — The 
 Poems and Ballads of Schiller i v. — 
 Lucretia 2 v. — Harold 2 v. — King Arthur 
 2v. — TheNewTimon, and St. Stephen's 
 IV. — TheCaxtons 2 v. — My Novel 4 V. — 
 What will he do with it? 4 V. — Dramatic 
 W^orks 2 V. — A Strange Story 2 v. — 
 Caxtoniana 2 v. — The Lost Tales of Mile- 
 tusi V. — jMiscellaneous Prose Works 4 v. — 
 Odes and Epodes of Horace 2 v. — Kenelm 
 Chillingly 4 V. — The Coming Race i v. — 
 The Parisians 4 v. — Pausanias, the Spar- 
 tan I V.
 
 lauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Bulwer, Henry Lytton (Lord 
 Balling), f 1872. 
 Historical Characters 2 v. — The Life of 
 Viscount Palraerston 3 v. 
 
 Bunyan, John, | 1688. 
 
 The Pilgrim's Progress i v. 
 
 "Buried Alone," Autlior of 
 (Charles Wood). 
 Buried Alone i v. 
 
 Burnett, Mrs. Frances Hodg- 
 son (Am.). 
 Through one Administration 2 v. — Little 
 Lord Fauntleroy 1 v. — Sara Crewe, 
 and Editha's Burglar i v. — The Pretty 
 Sister of Jose i v. — A Lady of Quality 
 2 V. — His Grace of Osmonde 2 v. 
 
 Burney, Miss (Madame D'Ar- 
 blay), •}• 1840. 
 Evelina i v. 
 
 Burns, Robert, f 1796. 
 
 Poetical Works (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 Burton, Richard F., f 1890. 
 A Pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina 3 v. 
 
 Bury, Baroness de: vide "All 
 for Greed." 
 
 Butler, A. J. 
 Bismarck. His Reflections and Re- 
 miniscences. Translated from the great 
 German edition, under the supervision of 
 A. J. Butler. With two Portraits. 3 v. 
 
 Buxton, Mrs. B. H., f 1881. 
 Jennie of "The Prince's," 2 v. — Won 
 2 V. — Great Grenfell Gardens 2 v. — 
 Nell— on and off the Stage 2 v. — From 
 the Wings 2 v. 
 
 Byron, Lord, -j- 1824. 
 Poetical Works (with Portrait) 5 v. 
 
 Caffyn, Mrs.Manningfton (Iota). 
 
 A Yellow Aster i v. — Children of Cir- 
 cumstance 2 V. — Anne Mauleverer 2 v. 
 
 Caine, Hall. 
 The Bondman 2 v. — The Jranxraan 
 2 V. — The Christian 2 v. — The Eternal 
 City 3 V. — The Prodigal Son 2 v. 
 
 Cameron, Verney Lovett. 
 Across Africa 2 v. 
 
 Campbell Praed, Mrs.: vide 
 Praed. 
 
 Carey, Rosa Nouchette. 
 Not Like other Girls 2 v. — "But Men 
 must Work" i v. — Sir Godfrey's Grand- 
 daughters 2 V. — The Old, Old Story 2 v. 
 
 — Herb of Grace 2 v. — The Highway of 
 Fate 2 V. — A Passage Perilous 2 v. — At 
 the Moorings 2 v. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, j 1881. 
 
 The French Revolution 3 V. — Fre- 
 derick the Great 13 v. — Oliver Crom- 
 well's Letters and Speeches 4 V. — The 
 Life of Schiller i v. 
 
 Carr, Alaric. 
 
 Treherne's Temptation 2 v. 
 
 Castle, Agnes & Egerton. 
 
 The Star Dreamer 2 v. — Incomparable 
 Bellairs i v. — Rose of the World i v. — 
 French Nan i v. — " If Youth but knew 1 " 
 1 V. 
 
 Castle, Egerton. 
 
 Consequences 2 v. — 
 Others I V. 
 
 Charles, Mrs. Elizabeth Rundle, 
 •j- 1896: vide Author of "Chro- 
 nicles of the Schonberg-Cotta 
 Family." 
 
 Charlesworth, Maria Louisa, 
 t 1880. 
 
 Oliver of the Mill i v. 
 
 Cholmondeley, Mary, 
 piana Tempest 2 v. — Red Pottage 2 v. 
 
 — Moth and Rust i v. — Prisoners 2 v. 
 
 Christian, Princess: vide Alice, 
 Grand Duchess of Hesse. 
 
 "Chronicles of the Schonberg- 
 Cotta Family," Author of (Mrs. 
 E. Rundle Charles), f 1896. 
 Chronicles of the Schonberg-Cotta Fa- 
 mily 2 V. — The Draytons and tho 
 Davenants 2 v. — On Both Sides of 
 tlie Sea 2 v. — Winifred Bertram 1 v. — 
 Diary of Mrs. Kitty Trcvylyan i v. — 
 
 'La Bella," and
 
 Taiichnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 The Victory of the Vanquished i v. — 
 The Cottage by the Cathedral and other 
 Parables i v. — Against the Stream 2 v. 
 — The Bertram Family 2 v. — Conquer- 
 ing and to Conquer i v. — Lapsed, but not 
 Lost I V. 
 
 Clark, Alfred. 
 The Finding of Lot's Wife i v. 
 
 Clemens, Samuel L.: v. Twain. 
 
 Clifford, Mrs. W. K. 
 Love-Letters of a Worldly Woman i v. 
 — Aunt Anne 2 v. — The Last Touches, and 
 other Stories t v. — Mrs. Keith's Crime 
 IV. — A Wild Proxy i v. — A Flash of 
 Summer i v. — A Woman Alone i v. — 
 Woodside Farm i v. — The Modern Way 
 IV. — The Getting Well of Dorothy i v. 
 
 Clive, Mrs. Caroline, f 1873: 
 vide Author of" Paul Ferroll." 
 
 Cobbe, Frances Power, -j- 1904. 
 Re-Echoes i v. 
 
 Coleridge, C. R. 
 
 An English Squire 2 v. 
 
 Coleridge, M. E. 
 The King with two Faces 2 v. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 
 t 1834- 
 
 Poems I V. 
 
 Collins, Charles AUston, j 1873. 
 A Cruise upon Wheels 2 v. 
 
 Collins, Mortimer, j 1876. 
 
 Sweet and Twenty 2 v. — A Fight with 
 Fortune 2 v. 
 
 Collins, Wilkie, j 1889. 
 After Dark i v. — Hide and Seek 2 v. — 
 A Plot in Private Life, etc. i v. — The 
 Woman in White 2 v. — Basil i v. — No 
 Name 3 v. — The Dead Secret, and other 
 Tales 2 V. — Antonina 2 v. — Armadale 
 3 V. — The iloonstone 2 v. — Man and 
 Wife 3 v. — Poor Miss Finch 2 v. — Miss 
 or Mrs. ? i v. — The New Magdalen 2 v. — 
 The Frozen Deep i v. — The Law and the 
 Lady 2 v. — The Two Destinies i v. — My 
 Lady's Money, and Percy and the Prophet 
 IV. — The Haunted Hotel i v. — The 
 Fallen Leaves 2 v. — Jezebel's Daughter 
 2 V. — The Black Robe 2 v. — Heart and 
 
 Science 2 V. — "I say No," 2 v. — The Evil 
 Genius 2 v. — The Guilty River, and The 
 Ghost's Touch IV. — The Legacy of Cain 
 2 V. — Blind Love 2 v. 
 
 "Cometh up as a Flower," Au- 
 thor of: vide Rhoda Brough- 
 ton. 
 
 Conrad, Joseph. 
 An Outcast of the Islands 2 v. — Talcs 
 of Unrest 1 v. — The Secret Agent i v. 
 
 Conway, Hugh (F. J. Fargus), 
 t 1885. 
 Called Back i v. — Bound Together 
 2 V. — Dark Days i v. — A F'amily Affair 
 
 2 v. — Living or Dead 2 v. 
 
 Cooper, James Fenimore (Am.), 
 
 t i8si. 
 The Spy (with Portrait) i v. — The Two 
 AdmircJs i v. — The Jack O'Lantern iv. 
 
 Cooper, Mrs.: vide Katharine 
 Saunders. 
 
 Corelli, Marie. 
 Vendetta ! 2 v. — Thelraa 2 v. — A 
 Romance of Two Worlds 2 v. — " Ardath " 
 
 3 v. — Wormwood. A Drama of Paris 
 2 v. — The Hired Baby, with other Stories 
 and Social Sketches i v. — Barabbas ; A 
 Dream of the World's Tragedy 2 v. — 
 The Sorrows of Satan 2 v. — The Mighty 
 Atom IV. — The Murder of Delicia i v. — 
 Ziska IV. — Boy. A Sketch. 2 v. — The 
 Master-Christian 2v. — "Temporal Power" 
 2 V. — God's Good Man 2 v. — F'ee 
 Opinions i v. — Treasure of Heaven (with 
 Portrait) 2 v. 
 
 Cotes, Mrs. Everard. 
 Those Delightful Americans i v. — Set in 
 Authority i v. 
 
 "County, the," Author of. 
 The County i v. 
 
 Craik, George Lillie, f 1866. 
 A Manual of English Literature and of 
 the History of the English Language 2 v. 
 
 Craik, Mrs. (IMiss Dinah M. 
 
 Mulock), t 1887. 
 
 John Halifax, Gentleman 2 v. — The 
 
 Head of the Family 2 v. — A Life for a 
 
 Life 2 V. — A Woman's ThouKhts about
 
 8 
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Women i v. — Agatha's Husband i v. — 
 Romantic Tales i v. — Domestic Stories 
 I V. — Mistress and Maid i v. — The 
 Ogilvies IV. — Lord Erlistoun i v. — 
 Christian's Mistake i v. — Bread upon 
 the Waters i v. — A Noble Life i v. — 
 Olive 2 V. — Two Marriages i v. — Studies 
 from Life i v. — Poems i v. — The 
 Woman's Kingdom 2 v. — The Unkind 
 Word, and other Stories 2 v. — A Brave 
 Lady 2 V. — Hannah 2 v. — Fair France 
 
 1 V. — My Mother and I i v. — The Little 
 Lame Prince i v. — Sermons out of Church 
 I V. —The Laurel-Bush ; Two little Tinkers 
 IV. — A Legacy 2 V. — Young Mrs. Jardine 
 
 2 v. — His Little Mother, and other Tales 
 and Sketches i v. — Plain Speaking i v. — 
 Miss Tommy i v. — King Arthur i v. 
 
 Craik, Georgiana M. (Mrs. Ma}'). 
 Lost and Won i v. — Faith Unwin's 
 Ordeal i v. — Leslie Tyrrell i v. —Wini- 
 fred's Wooing, etc. IV. — Mildred i v. — 
 Esther Hill's Secret 2 v. — Hero Tre- 
 velyan iv. — Without Kith or Kin 2 v. — 
 Only a Butterfly i v. — Sylvia's Choice; 
 Theresa 2 v. — Anne Warwick i v. — 
 Dorcas 2 V. — Two Women 2 v. 
 
 Craik, Georgiana M., & M. C. 
 Stirling. 
 Two Tales oi IMarried Life (Hard to 
 Bear, by Miss Craik; A True Man, byM. 
 C. StirUng) 2 v. 
 
 Craven, Mrs. Augustus: vide 
 Lady FuUerton. 
 
 Crawford, F. Marion (Am.). 
 ;Mr. Isaacs i v. — Doctor Claudius iv. — 
 To Leeward i v. — A Koman Singer 
 IV. — An American Politician i v. — 
 Zoroaster i v. —A Tale of a Lonely Parish 
 2 v. — Saracinesca 2 v. — Marzio's Crucifix 
 
 1 v.— PaulPatoff 2 v.— With thelraraortals 
 IV. — Greifenstein 2 v. — Sant' Ilario 
 
 2 V. — A Cigarette -Maker's Romance 
 
 1 V. — Khaled i v. —The Witch of Prague 
 
 2 V. — The Three Fates 2 v. — Don Orsino 
 2 V. — The Children of the King i v. — 
 Pietro Ghisleri 2 v. — -Marion Darche i v. 
 
 Katharine Lauderdale 2 v. — The Ral- 
 
 stons 2 V. — Casa Braccio 2 v. — Adam 
 Johnstone's Son i v. — Taquisara 2 v. — 
 A Rose of Yesterday i v. — Corleone 
 2 V. — Via Crucis 2 v. — In the Palace of 
 the King 2 v. — Marietta, a Maid of 
 Venice 2 v. — Cecilia 2 v. — The Heart 
 of Rome 2 v. — Whosoever Shall Offend... 
 2 V. — Soprano 2 v. — A Lady of Rome 2 v. 
 — Arethusa 2 v. 
 
 Crockett, S. R. 
 The Raiders 2 v. — Cleg Kelly 2V.— 
 The Grey Man 2 v. — Love Idylls i v. — 
 The Dark o' the Moon 2 v. 
 
 Croker, B. M. 
 Peggy of the Bartons 2 v. — The Happy 
 Valley i v. — The Old Cantonment, with 
 Other Stories of India and Elsewhere i v. 
 — A Nine Days' Wonder i v. — The 
 Youngest Miss Mowbray i v. 
 
 Cross, J. W.: vide George 
 
 Eliot's Life. 
 Cudlip, Mrs. Pender: vide A. 
 
 Thomas. 
 
 Cummins, Miss (Am.), f i866. 
 The Lamplighter i v. — Mabel Vaughau 
 I V. — El Fureidis iv. — HauutedHearts iv. 
 
 Gushing, Paul. 
 The Blacksmith of Voe 2 v. 
 
 "Daily News." 
 War Correspondence, 1877, by Archi- 
 bald Forbes and others 3 v. 
 
 " Dark," Author of. 
 
 Dark i v. 
 
 Davis, Richard Harding (Am.), 
 Gallegher , etc. 1 v. — Van Bibber and 
 Others i v. — Ranson's Folly i v. 
 
 De Foe, Daniel, j 173 1. 
 Robinson Crusoe i v. 
 
 Deland, Margaret (Am.). 
 John Ward, Preacher i v. 
 
 De la Pasture, Mrs. Henry, vide 
 Pasture. 
 
 " Democracy," Author of (Am.). 
 
 Democracy i v. 
 
 " Demos," Author of: wVfi? George 
 
 Gissing. 
 "Diary and Notes," Author 
 
 of: vide xVuthor of "Horace 
 
 Templeton." 
 
 Dickens, Charles, f 1870. 
 The Pickwick Club (with Portrait) 2 v. — 
 American Notes i v. — Oliver Twist i v. — 
 Nicholas Nickleby 2 v. — Sketches i v. — 
 Martin Chuzzlewit 2 v. — A Christmas 
 Carol; The Chimes; The Cricket on the 
 Hearth i v. — Master Humphrey's Clock
 
 Tnuchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 (Old CuriosityShop ; Barnaby Rudge, etc.) 
 
 3 V. — Pictures from Italy i v. — Dombey 
 and Son 3 V. — David Copperfield 3 V. — 
 Bleak House 4 V. — A Child's History of 
 England (2 v. S^M. 2,70.) — Hard Times 
 IV. — Little Dorrit (with Illustrations) 4 v. 
 
 — The Battle of Life ; The Haunted Man 
 IV. — A Tale of two Cities 2 v. — Hunted 
 Down ; The Uncommercial Traveller i v. 
 
 — Great Expectations 2 v. — Christmas 
 Stories, etc. i v. — Our Mutual Friend 
 (with Illustrations) 4 V. — Somebody's 
 Luggage; Mrs. Lirripcr's Lodgings; Mrs. 
 Lirriper's Legacy i v. — Doctor Mari- 
 gold's Prescriptions; Mugby Junction i v. 
 
 — The Mystery of Edwin Drood (with 
 Illustrations) 2 v. — The Mudfog Papers, 
 IV. — The Letters of Charles Dickens, ed. 
 by his Sister-in-law and his eldestDaughter 
 
 4 V. — V:i/e also Household Words, Novels 
 and Tales, and John Forster. 
 
 Dickens, Charles, & Wilkie 
 Collins. 
 
 No Thoroughfare; The Late Miss Hol- 
 lingford i v. 
 
 Disraeli, Benjamin, Lord Bea- 
 consfield, f 1881. 
 Coningsby i v. — Sybil i v. — Contarini 
 Fleming (with Portrait) i v. — Alroy i v. — 
 Tancred 2 v. — Venetia 2 v. — Vivian 
 Grey 2 v. — Henrietta Temple i v. — 
 Lothair 2 v. — • Endymion 2 v. 
 
 Dixon, Ella Hepworth. 
 The Story ofa Modem Woman I v. — One 
 Doubtful Hour i v. 
 
 Dixon, W. Hepworth, j 1879. 
 Personal History of Lord Bacon i v. — 
 The Holy Land 2 v. — New America 2 v. — 
 Spiritual Wives 2 v. — Her ^Majesty's 
 Tower 4 V. — Free Russia 2 v. — History 
 of two Queens 6 v. — White Conquest 
 2 V. — Diana, Lady Lyle 2 v. 
 
 Dixon, Jr., Thomas, (Am.). 
 The Leopard's Spots 2 v. 
 
 Dougall, L. (Am.). 
 Beggars All 2 v. 
 
 Dowie, Menie Muriel. 
 A Girl in the Karpathians i v. 
 
 Doyle, Sir A. Conan. 
 
 The Sign of Four i v. — Micah Clarke 
 2 V. — The Captain of the Pole-Star, and 
 other Tales i v. — The White Company 
 2 V. — A Study in Scarlet i v, — The 
 
 Great Shadow, and Beyond the City i v. — 
 The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 2 v. 
 — The Refugees 2 v. — The Firm of 
 Girdlestone 2 v. — The Memoirs of Sher- 
 lock Holmes 2 v. — Round the Red Lamp 
 I V. — The Stark ]Munro Letters i v. — 
 The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard i v. — 
 Rodney Stone 2 v. — Uncle Bernac i v. — 
 The Tragedy of the Korosko i v. — A 
 Duet IV. — The Green Flag i v. — The 
 Great Boer War 2 v. — The War in South 
 Africa i v. — The Hound of the Basker- 
 villes IV. — Adventures of Gerard i v. — 
 The Return of Sherlock Holmes 2 v. — Sir 
 Nigel 2 V. — The Magic Door i v. 
 
 Drummond, Professor Henry, 
 
 t 1897- 
 The Greatest Thing in the World; Pax 
 Vobiscum ; The Changed Life i v. 
 
 Dufferin, the Earl of. 
 Letters from High Latitudes i v. 
 
 Duncan, Sara Jeannette: vide 
 Mrs. Cotes. 
 
 Dunton: 
 ton. 
 
 vide Th. Watts-Dun- 
 
 Earl, the, and the Doctor. 
 
 South Sea Bubbles i v. 
 
 Eastwick, Edward B., j 1883. 
 
 Autobiography of Lutfullah i v. 
 
 Edgeworth, Maria, vide Series 
 for the Young, p. 29. 
 
 Edwardes, Mrs. Annie. 
 Archie Lovell 2 v. — Steven Lawrence, 
 Yeoman 2 v. — Ought we to visit her ? 2 v. 
 — A Vagabond Heroine i v. — Leah: A 
 Woman of Fashion 2 v. — A Blue-Stock- 
 ing IV. — Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 
 
 1 V. — Vivian the Beauty i v. — A Ball- 
 room Repentance 2 v. — A Girton Girl 
 
 2 V. — A Playwright's Daughter, and 
 Bertie Griffiths i v. — Pearl-Powder i v. 
 The Adventuress i v. 
 
 Edwards, Ameha B., f 1892. 
 Barbara's History 2 v. — Miss Carew 
 2v. — Hand and Glove i v. — Half a Mil- 
 lion of Money 2 v. — Debenham's Vow 
 2 V. — In the Days of my Youth 2 v. — 
 Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Val- 
 leys I V. — Monsieur INfaurice i v. — A 
 Night on the Borders of the Black Forest 
 IV. — A Poetry- Book of Elder Poets
 
 TO 
 
 Taiichnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 IV. — A Thousand ililes up the Nile 2 v. 
 — A Poetrj'-Book of Modern roets i v. — 
 Lord Brackenbury 2 v. 
 
 Edwards, M. Betham-: vide 
 Betham. 
 
 Edward, Eggleston (Am.). 
 The Faith Doctor 2 v. 
 
 Elbon, Barbara (Am.). 
 Bethesda 2 v. 
 
 Eliot, George (Miss Evans — 
 Mrs. Cross), f 1880. 
 Scenes of Clerical Life 2 v. — Adam 
 Bcde 2 V. — The Mill on the Floss 2 v. — 
 Silas Marner i v. — Rcmola 2 v. — Felix 
 Holt 2 V. — Daniel Deronda 4 V. — The 
 Lifted Veil, and Brother Jacob i v. — 
 Impressions of Theophrastus Such i v. — 
 Essays and Leaves from a Note-Book 
 1 \. — Georg-e Eliot's Life, edited by her 
 Husband, J. W. Cross 4 v. 
 
 "Elizabeth and her German 
 Garden," Author of. 
 
 Elizabeth and her German Garden i v. — 
 The Solitary Summer i v. — The Bene- 
 factress 2 V. — Princess Priscilla's Fort- 
 night IV. — The Adventures of Elizabeth 
 in Riigen i v. — Fraulein Schmidt and Mr. 
 Anstruther i v. 
 
 Elliot, Mrs. Frances, \ 1898. 
 
 Diary of an Idle Woman in Italy 2 v. — 
 Old Court Life in France 2 v. — The 
 Italians 2 v. — The Diary of an Idle 
 "Woman in .Sicily i v. — Pictures of Old 
 Rome IV. — The Diarj-of an Idle Woman in 
 .Spain 2 V. — The Red Cardinal i v. — 
 The Story of Sophia i v. — Diary of an 
 Idle Woman in Constantinople i v. — 
 Old Court Life in Spain 2 v. — Roman 
 Gossip I v. 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, f 1 882. 
 
 Representative Men i v. 
 
 " Englishwoman's Love-Let- 
 ters, an," Author of. 
 An Englishwoman's Love-Lctters I v. 
 
 Erroll, Henry. 
 An Ugly Duckling i v. 
 
 Esler, E. Rcntoul. 
 The Way they loved at Grimpat i v. 
 
 "Essays and Reviews," the 
 Authors of. 
 Essays and Reviews. By various Authors 
 I V. 
 
 "Estelle Russell," Author of. 
 Estelle Russell 2 v. 
 
 Esterre- Keeling, Elsa D'. 
 
 Three Sisters i v. — A Laughing Philo- 
 sopher IV. — The Professor's Wooing i v. 
 — In Thoughtland and in Dreamland 
 I v. — Orchardscroft i v. — Appassionata 
 IV. — Old Maids and Young 2 v. — The 
 Queen's Serf i v. 
 
 "Euthanasia," Author of. 
 Euthanasia i v. 
 
 Ewing, Juliana Horatia, f 1885. 
 Jackanapes ; The Story of a Short Life ; 
 Daddy Darwin's Dovecot i v. — A Fl.it 
 Iron for a Farthing i v. — The Brownies, 
 and other Tales i v. 
 
 " Expiated," Author of. 
 Expiated 2 v. 
 
 Fargus, F. J.: vide Hugh Con- 
 way. 
 
 Farrar, F. W. (Dean), f 1903. 
 Darkness and Dawn 3 v. 
 
 " Fate of Fenella, the," Authors 
 of. 
 The Fate of Fenella, by 24 Authors i v. 
 
 Felkin, Alfred Laurence: vide 
 E. T. Fowler. 
 
 Felkin, Mrs;: vide E.T. Fowler. 
 
 Fendall, Percy: vide F. C. 
 Philips. 
 
 Fenn, George Manville. 
 
 The Parson o' Dumford 2 v. 
 Clerk of Portwick 2 v. 
 
 The 
 
 Fielding, Henry, f 1754. 
 Tom Jones 2 v. 
 
 Findlater, Mary and Jane: vide 
 Kate Douglas Wiggin. 
 
 Five Centuries 
 of the English Language and Literature: 
 
 John WyclifFe. — Geoffrey Chaucer. — 
 Stephen Hawes. — Sir Thomas More. — 
 Edmund Spenser. — Ben Jonson. — John 
 Locke. — Thomas Gray (vol.500, published 
 i860) I T,
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 II 
 
 Fleming, George (Am.). 
 Kismet i v. — Andromeda 2 v. 
 
 Forbes, Archibald, -j- 1900. 
 My Experiences of the War between 
 France and Germany 2 v. — Soldiering- 
 and Scribbling i v. — Memories and 
 Studies of War and Peace 2 v. — Vide also 
 " Daily News," War Correspondence. 
 
 Forrest, R. E. 
 Eigbt Days 2 v. 
 
 Forrester, Mrs. 
 Viva 2 V. — Rhona 2 v. — Roy and Viola 
 2 V. — My Lord and My Lady 2 v. — I 
 have Lived and Loved 2 v. — June 2 v. — 
 Omnia Vanitas i v. — Although be was a 
 Lord, and other Tales i v. — Corisande, 
 and other Tales i v. — Once Again 2 v. — 
 Of the World, Worldly i v. — Dearest 
 2 v. — The Light of other Days i v. — 
 Too Late Repented i v. 
 
 Forster, John, f 1876. 
 The Life of Charles Dickens (with Illus- 
 trations and Portraits) 6 v. — Life and 
 Times of Oliver Goldsmith 2 v. 
 
 Fothergill, Jessie. 
 The First Violin 2 v. — Probation 2 v. — 
 Made or Marred, and " One of Three" 
 IV. — Kith and Kin 2 v. — Peril 2 v. — 
 Borderland 2 v. 
 
 " Found Dead," Author of: vide 
 James Payn. 
 
 Fowler, Ellen Thorneycroft 
 
 (Mrs. Alfred Laurence Felkin). 
 A Double Thread 2 v. — The Farring- 
 dons 2 V. — Fuel of Fire i v. — Place and 
 Power 2 V. — In Subjection 2 v. 
 
 Fowler , Ellen Thorneycroft 
 (Mrs. A. L. Felkin) & Alfred 
 Laurence Felkin. 
 Kate of Kate Hall 2 v. 
 
 Fox, Caroline, f 187 1. 
 Memories of Old Friends from her Jour- 
 nals and Letters, edited by Horace N. 
 Pym 2 V. 
 
 "Frank Fairlegh," Author of 
 (F. E. Smedley), f 1864, 
 Frank Fairlegh 2 v. 
 
 Francis, M. E. 
 The Duenna of a Genius i v. 
 
 Frederic, Harold (Am.), f 1898. 
 Illumination 2 v. — March Hares i v. 
 
 Freeman, Edward A., f 1892. 
 The Growth of the English Constitution 
 IV. — Select Historical Essays i v. — 
 Sketches from French Travel i v. 
 
 Froude, James Anthony,-)- 1894. 
 Oceana i v. — The Spanish Story of the 
 Armada, and other Essays i v. 
 
 Fullerton, Lady Georgiana, 
 
 t 1885. 
 Ellen Middleton i v. — Grantley Manor 
 2 V. — Lady Bird 2 v. — Too Strange not 
 to be True 2 v. — Constance Sherwood 
 2 v. — A Stormy Life 2 v. — Mrs. Geralds' 
 Niece 2 v. — The Notary's Daughter i v. — 
 The Lilies of the Valley, and The House of 
 Penarvan i v. — TheCountessdeBonneval 
 IV. — Rose Leblanc i v. — Seven Stories 
 
 1 v. — The Life of Luisa de Carvajal i v. 
 — ■ A Will and a Way, and The Hand- 
 kerchief at the Window 2 v. — Eliane 
 
 2 V. (by Mrs. Augustus Craven, translated 
 by Lady Fullerton). — Laurentia i v. 
 
 Gardiner, Marguerite: vide 
 
 Lady Blessington. 
 Gaskell, Mrs., f 1865. 
 
 Mary Barton i v. — Ruth 2 v. — North 
 and South i v. — Lizzie Leigh, and other 
 Tales IV. — The Life of Charlotte Bronte 
 2 V. — Lois the Witch, etc. i v. — Sylvia's 
 Lovers 2 v. — A Dark Night's Work 
 IV. — Wives and Daughters 3 V. — Cran- 
 ford IV. — Cousin Phillis, and other Tales 
 
 I V. 
 
 " Geraldine Hawthorne," Author 
 of: vide Author of "Miss 
 Molly." 
 Gerard, Dorothea (Madame Lon- 
 gard de Longgarde). 
 Lady Baby 2 v. — Recha i v. — Ortho- 
 dox IV. — The Wrong Man i v. — A Spot- 
 less Reputation I v.— A Forgotten Sin i v. 
 
 — One Year I v. — The Supreme Crime r v. 
 
 TheBlood-Tax i v. — Holy Matrimony 
 
 IV. — The Eternal Woman i v. — Made 
 of Money i v. — The Bridge of Life i v. 
 
 — The Three Essentials i v. — The Im- 
 probable Idyl IV. — The Compromise 2 v. 
 
 — Itinerant Daughters i v. 
 
 Gerard, E. (Emily de-Laszowska). 
 A Secret Mission i v. — A Foreigner 2 v. 
 
 — The Extermination of Love 2 v.
 
 Tatichnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Giberne, Agnes. 
 
 The Curate's Home i v. 
 
 Gissing, George, -j- 1903. 
 Demos. A Story of English Socialism 2 v. 
 
 — New Grub Street 2 v. 
 
 Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., 
 
 t 1898. 
 
 Korae and the Newest Fashions in Re- 
 ligion IV. — Bulgarian Horrors , and 
 Russia in Turkistan, with other Tracts 
 IV. — The Hellenic Factor in the Eastern 
 Problem, with other Tracts i v. 
 
 Glyn, Elinor. 
 
 The Visits of Elizabeth i v. — The Re- 
 flections of Ambrosine i v. — The Vicissi- 
 tudes of Evangeline i v. — Beyond the 
 Rocks IV. — Three Weeks i v. 
 
 Godfrey, Hal: vide Charlotte 
 O'Conor Eccles. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, f 1774. 
 Select Works (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 Goodman, Edward J. 
 Too Curious 1 V. 
 
 Gordon, Julien (Am.). 
 A Diplomat's Diary i v. 
 
 Gordon, Major -Gen. C. G., 
 
 t 1885. 
 His Journals at Kartoum. Introduction 
 and Notes by A. E. Hake (with eighteen 
 Illustrations) 2 v. 
 
 Gore, Mrs., f 1861. 
 Castles in the Air i v. — The Dean's 
 Daughter 2 v. — Progress and Prejudice 
 2 V. — IM amnion 2 v. — A Life's Lessons 
 2 V. — The Two Aristocracies 2 v. — Heck- 
 ington 2 V. 
 
 Grand, Sarah. 
 
 Our Manifold Nature i v. — Babs the 
 Impossible 2 v. 
 
 Grant, Miss. 
 Victor Lescar 2 v. — The Sun-Maid 2 v. 
 
 — My Heart's in the Pliglilands 2 v. — 
 Artiste 2 v. — Prince Hugo 2 v. — Cara 
 Roma 2 V. 
 
 Gray, Maxwell. 
 The Silence of Dean Maitland 2 v. — The 
 Reproach of Annesley 2 v. 
 
 Grenville: Murray, E. C.(Trois- 
 
 Etoiles), -j- 1 88 1. 
 The Member lor Paris 2 v. — Young 
 Brown 2 v. — The Boudoir Cabal 3 V. — 
 French Pictures in English Chalk (First 
 Series) 2 v. — The liussians of To-day 
 IV. — French Pictures in English Chalk 
 (Second Series) 2 v. — Strange Tales 
 I V. — That Artful Vicar 2v. — Six Months 
 in the Ranks i v. — People I have met i v. 
 
 Grimwood, Ethel St. Clair. 
 My Three Years in Manipur (with Por- 
 trait) I v. 
 
 Grohman, W. A. Baillie. 
 Tyrol and the Tyrolese i v. 
 
 Gunter, Archibald Clavering 
 (Am.), t 1907. 
 Mr. Barnes of New York i v. 
 
 Guthrie, F.Anstey: wi/^Anstey. 
 
 "Guy Livingstone," Author of 
 
 (George Alfred Laurence), 
 
 t 1876. 
 Guy Livingstone 1 v. — Sword and 
 Gown IV. — Barren Honour i v. — 
 Border and Bastille i v. — Maurice Dering 
 IV. — Sans !Merci 2 v. — Breaking a 
 Butterfly 2 v. — Anteros 2 v. — Ha- 
 garene 2 v. 
 
 Habbcrton, John (Am.). 
 Helen's Babies & Other People's Chil- 
 dren IV. — The Bowshara Puzzle i v. — 
 One Tramp; !Mrs. Mayburn's Twins 1 v. 
 
 Haggard, H. Rider. 
 King Solomon's Mines i v. — She 2v. — 
 Jess 2 V. — Allan Quatermain 2 v. — The 
 W'itch's Head 2 v. — Maiwa's Revenc;e 
 
 1 V. — Mr. Meeson's Will i v. — Colonel 
 Quaritch, V. C. 2 v. — Cleopatra 2 v. — 
 Allan's Wife i v. — Beatrice 2 v. — Dawn 
 
 2 v. — Montezuma's Dau.^Uter 2 v. —The 
 Peopleof the ilist 2 v. — Joan Haste 2 v. — 
 Heart of the World 2 v. — The Wizard 
 IV. — Doctor Therne i v. — Swallow 
 2 V. — Black Heart and White Heart, 
 and Elissa i v. — Lysbeth 2 v. — A Winter 
 Pilgrimage 2 v. — Pearl-Maiden 2 v. — 
 Stella Fregelius 2 v. — The Brethren 2 v. 
 
 — Aycsha. The Return of ' She ' 2 v. — 
 The Way of the Spirit 2 v. — Benita i v. 
 
 — Fair Margaret 2 v. 
 
 Haggard, H. Rider, & Andrew 
 Lang. 
 The World's Desire 2 v.
 
 Tauch7iitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 13 
 
 Hake, A. E. : vide Gen. Gordon. 
 
 Hall, Mrs. S. C, j 1881. 
 Can Wrong be Right? i v. — Marian 2 v. 
 
 Hamerton, Philip Gilbert, 
 ti894. 
 
 Marmorne i v. — French and English 2 v. 
 
 Hardy, Miss Iza: -vide Author of 
 "Not Easily Jealous." 
 
 Hardy, Thomas. 
 The Hand of Ethelberta 2 v. — Far 
 from the Madding Crowd 2 v. — The Re- 
 turn of the Native 2 v. — The Trumpet- 
 Major 2 V. — A Laodicean 2 v. — Two on 
 a Tower 2 v. — A Pair of Blue Eyes 2 v. 
 
 — A Group of Noble Dames i v. — Tess 
 of the D'Urbervilles 2 v. — Life's Little 
 Ironies i v. — Jude the Obscure 2 v. 
 
 Harland, Henry, f 1905. 
 The Cardinal's Snufif-Box i v. — The 
 Lady Paramount i v.— My Friend Prospero 
 
 I V. 
 
 Harraden, Beatrice. 
 
 Ships that pass in the Night i v. — In 
 Varying Moods i v. — Hilda Strafford, 
 and The Remittance Man i v. — The 
 Fowler 2 v. — Katharine Frensham 2 v. 
 
 — The Scholar's Daughter i v. 
 
 Harrison, Agnes. 
 Martin's Vineyard i v. 
 
 Harrison, Mrs. Mary St. Leger: 
 ■vide Lucas Malet. 
 
 Harte, Bret (Am.), f 1902. 
 Prose and Poetry (Tales of the Argo- 
 nauts : — The Luck of Roaring Camp ; 
 The Outcasts of Poker Flat, etc. — 
 Spanish and American Legends; Con- 
 densed Novels; Civic and Character 
 Sketches; Poems) 2 v. — Idyls of the 
 Foothills IV. — Gabriel Conroy 2 v. — 
 Two Men of Sandy Bar i v. — Thankful 
 Blossom, and other Tales i v. — The 
 Story of a Mine i v. — Drift from Two 
 Shores i v. — Au Heiress of Red Dog, 
 and other Sketches i v. — The Twins ot 
 Table Mountain, and other Tales i v. — 
 Jeff Briggs's Love Story, and other Tales 
 IV. — Flip, and other Stories i v. — On 
 the Frontier i v. — By Shore and Sedge 
 IV. — Maruja i v. — Snow-bound at 
 Eagle's, and Devil's Ford i v. — The 
 
 Crusade of the "Excelsior" i v. — A 
 Millionaire of Rough - and - Ready, and 
 other Tales i v. — Captain Jim's Friend, 
 and the Argonauts of North Liberty i v. 
 — Cressy i v. — The Heritage of Dedlow 
 Marsh, and other Talcs i v. — A Waif of 
 the Plains i v. — A Ward of the Golden 
 Gate IV. — A Sappho of Green Springs, 
 and other Tales i v. — A First Family of 
 Tasajara i v.— Colonel Starbottle's Client, 
 and some other People i v. — Susy i v. — 
 Sally Dows, etc. i v. — A Protegee of 
 Jack Hamlin's, etc. i v. — The Bell- 
 Ringer of Angel's, etc. i v. — Clarence 
 IV. — In a Hollow of the Hills, and The 
 Devotion of Enriquez IV. — TheAncestors 
 ofPeterAtherIy,etc. IV.— Three Partners 
 IV. — Tales of Trail and Town i v. — 
 Stories in Light and Shadow i v. — Mr. 
 JackHamlin'sMediation ,and otherStorics 
 IV. — From Sand-Hill to Pine i v. — 
 Under the Redwoods i v. — On the Old 
 Trail i v. — Trent's Trust i v. 
 
 Havelock, Sir Henry; vide Rev. 
 
 W. Brock. 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel (Am.), 
 t 1864. 
 The Scarlet Letter i v. — Transforma- 
 tion (The Marble Faun) 2 v. — Passages 
 from the English Note-Books of Nathaniel 
 Hawthorne 2 v. 
 
 Hearn, Lafcadio, \ 1906. 
 Kokoro IV. — Kwaidan i v. — Glimpses 
 of Unfamiliar Japan i v. 
 
 Hector, Mrs.: vide Mrs. Alex- 
 ander. 
 
 " Heir of Redclyffe, the," Author 
 of: vide Charlotte M. Yonge. 
 
 Helps, Sir Arthur, f i875- 
 Friends in Council 2 v. — Ivan de Biron 
 
 2 V. 
 
 Hemans, Mrs. Felicia, f 1835. 
 Select Poetical Works i v. 
 
 Hewlett, Maurice. 
 The Forest Lovers i v. — Little Novels 
 of Italy IV. — The Life and Death of 
 Richard Yea-and-Nay 2 v. — New Can- 
 terbury Tales I V. — The Queen's Quair; 
 or. The Six Years' Tragedy 2 v. — Fond 
 Adventures I v. — The Fool Errant 2 v. 
 
 Hichens, Robert. 
 
 Flames 2 v. — The Slave 2 v. — Felix 2 v. 
 — The Woman with the Fan 2 v. — The
 
 14 
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Compute List. 
 
 Garden of Allah 2 v. — The Black Spaniel, 
 and Other Stories 1 v. — The Call of the 
 Blood 2 V. 
 
 Hobart Pasha, Admiral, f 1886. 
 Sketches from my Life i v. 
 
 Hobbes, John Oliver (Mrs. 
 Craigie), j 1906. 
 The Gods, Some Mortals and Lord 
 Wickenhara i v. — The Serious Wooing 
 
 1 V. — The Dream and the Business 2 v. 
 
 Hoey, Mrs. Cashel. 
 A Golden Sorrow ? v. ^ Out of Court 
 
 2 V. 
 
 Holdsvvorth, Annie E. 
 The Years that the Locust hath Eaten 
 IV. — The Gods Arrive i v. — The Voi- 
 le}' of the Great Shadow i v. — Gi eat Low- 
 lands I V. — A Garden of Spinsters i v. 
 
 Holme Lee: vide Harriet Parr. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell (Am.), 
 t 1894- 
 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table 
 I V. — The Professor at the Breakfast- 
 Table 1 V. —The Poet at the Breakfast- 
 Table IV. — Over the Teacups i v. 
 Hope, Anthony (Hawkins). 
 Jlr. Witt's Widow I V. — A Change 
 of Air I V. — Half a Hero i v. — The In- 
 discretion of the Duchess 1 v. — The God 
 in the Car i v. — The Chronicles of Count 
 Antonio i v. — Comedies of Courtship 
 
 1 V. — The Heart of Princess Osra i v. 
 
 Phroso 2 V. — Simon Dale 2 v. — Rupert 
 of Hentzau i v — The King's Mirror 
 
 2 v.— Quisante i v. — Tristram of Bient 2 v. 
 
 — The Intrusions of Peggy 2 v. — Double 
 Harness 2 v. — A Servant of the Public 2 v. 
 
 — Sophy of Kravonia 2 v. — Tales of Two 
 People 2 V. 
 
 Hopkins, Tighe. 
 An Idler in Old France i v. — The Man 
 in the Iron ISIask i v. — The Dungeons 
 of Old Paris i v. — The Silent Gate i v. 
 
 " Horace Templeton," Author of. 
 Diary and Notes i v. 
 
 Hornung, Ernest Wilham. 
 A Bride from the Bush 1 v. — Under 
 Two Skies I v. —Tiny Luttrcll i v. — 
 The Boss of Tarooniba i v. — My Lord 
 Duke I V. — Young Blood i v. — Some 
 Persons Unknown i v. — The Amateur 
 Cracksman i v. — The Rogue's March i v. 
 
 — Tlie Belle of Toorak i v. — Peccavi i v. 
 
 — The Black Mask i v. —The Shadow of 
 
 the Rope i v. — No Hero 1 v. — Denis 
 Dent I V. — Irralie's Bushranger and The 
 
 Unbidden Guest i v. — Stingaree 1 v. 
 
 A Thief in the Night i v. 
 
 "Household Words." 
 Conducted by Charles Dickens. 1851-56. 
 56 V. — NovuLs and Talks reprinted from 
 Household Words by Charles Dickens. 
 
 1856-59. II V. 
 
 Houstoun, Mrs. : ZV&" Recom- 
 mended to Mercy." 
 
 "How to be Happy though 
 Married," Author of. 
 How to be Happy though Married i v. 
 
 Howard, Blanche Willis (Am.), 
 t 1S99. 
 One Summer i v. — Aunt Serena i v. — 
 Guenn 2 v. — Tony, the Maid, etc. iv. — 
 The Open Door 2 v. 
 
 Howard, BlancheWillis, J1899, 
 & William Sharp, | 1905. 
 A Fellowe and His Wife i v. 
 
 Howells, William Dean (Am.), 
 A Foregone Conclusion i v. — The 
 Lady of the Aroostook i v. — A Modern 
 Instance 2 V. — The Undiscovered Country 
 I V. — Venetian Life (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 — Italian Journeys i v. — A Chance Ac- 
 quaintance I V. — Their Wcddingjourney 
 I V. — A Fearful Responsibility, and 
 Tonelli's Marriage i v. — A Woman's 
 Reason 2 v. — Dr. Breen's Practice i v. — 
 The Rise of Silas Lapham 2 v. — A Pair 
 of Patient Lovers 1 v. — Miss Bellard's In- 
 spiration I V. 
 
 Hughes, Thomas, j 1898. 
 Tom Brown's School-Days i v. 
 
 Hungerford, Mrs. (I^Irs. Argles), 
 
 t 1897. 
 Molly Bawn 2 v. — Mrs. Geoffrey 2 v. 
 
 — Faith and Unfaith 2 v. — Portia 2 v. 
 
 Loys, Lord Berresford, and other Tales 
 J V. — Her First Appearance, and other 
 Tales I V. — Phyllis 2 v. — Rossmoyne 
 2 V. — Doris 2 V. — A Jilaiden all Forlorn, 
 etc. IV. — A Passive Crime, and other 
 Stories i v. — Green Pleasure and Grey 
 Grief 2 v. — A Mental Struggle 2 v. — 
 Her Week's Amusement, and Ugly 
 Barrington i v. — Lady Branksmere 2 v. 
 
 — I-ady Valworth's Diamonds i v. — A 
 ^lodern Circe 2 v. — ^larvcl 2 v. — The
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Couplete List. 
 
 15 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Verelcer 1 v. — Under-Cur- 
 rents 2 v. — In Durance Vile, etc. i v. — A 
 Troublesome Girl, and other Stories i v. — 
 A Life's Remorse 2 v. — A Born Coquette 
 2v. —The Duchess i v. — LadyVerner's 
 Flight IV. — A Conquering Heroine, 
 and "When in Doubt" i v. — Nora 
 Creina 2 v. — A Mad Prank, and other 
 Stories i v. — The Hoyden 2 v. — The 
 Red House Mystery i v. — An Unsatis- 
 factory Lover i v. — Peter's Wife 2 v. — 
 The Three Graces i v. — A Tug of War 
 IV. — The Professor's Experiment 2 v. — 
 A Point of Conscience 2 v. — A Lonely 
 Girl I V. — Lovice i v. — The Coming oJ 
 Chloe I V. 
 
 Hunt, Mrs.: vide Averil Beau- 
 mont. 
 
 Hunt, Violet. 
 The Human Interest i v. 
 
 Hutten, Baroness von (Am,). 
 The Halo i v. 
 
 Ingelovv, Jean, j 1897. 
 Off the Skelligs 3 V. — Poems 2 v. — 
 J'ated to be Free 2 v. — Sarah de 
 Berenger 2 v. — Don John 2 v. 
 
 Inglis, the Hon. Lady. 
 
 The Siege of Lucknow i v. 
 
 Ingram, John H. : vide E. A. 
 
 Poe. 
 Iota: vide Mrs. Mannington 
 
 Caffyn. 
 
 Irving , Washington (Am.), 
 
 t 1859. 
 The Sketch Book (with Portrait) i v. — 
 The Life of Mahomet i v. — Lives of the 
 Successors of Mahomet i v. — Oliver Gold- 
 smith IV. — Chronicles of Wolfert's Roost 
 I v. — Life of George Washington 5 v. 
 
 Jackson, Mrs. Helen (H. H.) 
 
 (Am.), t 1885. 
 Ramona 2 v. 
 
 Jacobs, W. W. 
 
 Many Cargoes i v. — The Skipper's 
 Wooing, and The Brown Man's Servant 
 IV. — Sea Urchins i v. — A Master of 
 Craft IV. — Light Freights i v. — At Sun- 
 wich Port IV. — The Lady of the Barge i v. 
 
 — Odd Craft i v. — Dialstone Lane i v. 
 
 — Captains All i v. — Short Cruises i v. 
 
 James, Charles T. C. 
 
 Holy Wedlock i v. 
 
 James, G. P. R., f i860. 
 Morley Ernstein (with Portrait) i v. — 
 Forest Days i v. — The False Heir i v. — 
 Arabella Stuart i v. — Rose d'Albret 
 IV. — Arrah Neil i v. — Agincourt i v. — 
 The Smuggler i v. — The Step-Mother 
 2 V. — Beauchanip i v. — Heidelberg 
 IV.— The Gipsy i v. — The Castle of 
 Ehrenstein i v. — Darnley i v. — Russell 
 2 V. — The Convict 2 v. — Sir Theodore 
 Broughton 2 v. 
 
 James, Henry (Am.). 
 The American 2 v. — The Europeans 
 IV. — Daisy Miller; An International 
 Episode; Four Meetings i v. — Roderick 
 Hudson 2 V. — The Madonna of the 
 Future, etc. i v. — Eugene Pickering, 
 etc. IV. — Confidence i v. — Washing- 
 ton Square, etc. 2 v. — The Portrait of a 
 Lady 3 v. — Foreign Parts i v. — French 
 Poets and Novelists i v. — The Siege of 
 London; The Point of View; A Pas- 
 sionate Pilgrim I v. — Portraits of Places 
 IV. — A Little Tour in France i v. 
 
 Jeaffreson, J. Cordy. 
 A Book about Doctors 2 v. — A 
 Woman in spite of Herself 2 v. — The 
 Real Lord Byron 3 v. 
 
 Jenkin, Mrs. Charles, f 1885. 
 "Who Breaks— Pays" i v. — Skir- 
 mishing I V. — Once and Again 2 v. — 
 Two French Marriages 2 v. — Within an 
 Ace IV. — Jupiter's Daughters i v. 
 
 Jenkins, Edward. 
 Ginx's Baby, his Birth and other Mis- 
 fortunes ; Lord Bantam 2 v. 
 
 "Jennie of 'The Prince's,'" 
 Author of: vide B. H. Buxton. 
 
 Jerome, K. Jerome. 
 
 The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow 
 IV. — Diary of a Pilgrimage, and Six 
 Essays i v. — Novel Notes i v. — Sketches 
 in Lavender, Blue and Green i v. — 
 The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow 
 IV. — Three Men on the Bummel i v. — 
 Paul Kelver 2 v. — Tea-Table Talk i v. 
 — Tommy and Co. i v. — Idle Ideas in 1905 
 I V. — The Passing of the Third Floor Back 
 
 1 V. 
 
 Jerrold, Douglas, f 1857. 
 History of St. Giles and St. James 
 
 2 V. — Men of Character 2 v. 
 
 "John Halifax, Gentleman," 
 Author of: vide Mrs. Craik.
 
 i6 
 
 Tanchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Johnny Ludlow: vide Mrs. 
 Henry Wood. 
 
 Johnson, Samuel, \ 1784. 
 Lives of the English Poets 2 v. 
 
 Jolly, Emily. 
 Colonel Dacre 2 v. 
 
 "Joshua Davidson," Author of: 
 vide Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 
 
 Kavanagh, Miss Julia, -j- 1877. 
 Nathalie 2 v. — Daisy Burns 2 v. — 
 Grace Lee 2 v. — Rachel Gray i v. — 
 Adele 3 V. — A Summer and Winter in 
 the Two Sicilies 2 v. — Seven Years, and 
 other Tales 2 v. — French Women of 
 Letters i v. — English Women of Letters 
 IV. — Queen Mab 2 v. — Beatrice 2 v. — 
 Sybil's Second Love 2 v. — Dora 2 v. — 
 Silvia 2 v. — Bessie 2 v. — John Dorrien 
 3 v. — Two Lilies 2 v. — Forget-me-nots 
 2 V. — Vide also Series for the Young, 
 p. 29. 
 
 Keary, Annie, •{• 1879. 
 Oldbury 2 v. — Castle Daly 2 v. 
 
 Keeling, D'Esterre- 
 terre. 
 
 vide Es- 
 
 Kempis, Thomas a. 
 
 The Imitation of Christ. Translated 
 from the Latin by W. Benham, n.D. i v. 
 
 Kimball, Richard B. (Am.), j 
 
 Saint Leger i v. — Romance of Student 
 Life Abroad i v. — Undercurrents i v. — 
 Was he Successful.' i v. — To-Day in Nevr 
 York I V. 
 
 Kinglake, Alexander William, 
 
 t 1891. 
 Eothen i v. — The Invasion of the 
 Crimea 14 v. 
 
 Kingsley, Charles, j- 1875. 
 
 Yeast 1 V. — Westward ho ! 2 v, — Two 
 Years ago 2 v. — Hypatia 2 v. — Alton 
 Locke IV. — Hereward the Wake 2 v. — 
 At Last 2 V. — His Letters and Memories 
 of his Life, edited by his Wife 2 v. 
 
 Kingsley, Henry, f 1876. 
 Ravenshoc 2 v. — Austin Elliot i v. — 
 Geoffry Ilamlyn 2 v. — The Ilillyars and 
 tlio Iiurtons 2 v. — Leighton Court i v. — 
 Valentin i v. — Oakshott Castlo x v, — 
 
 Reginald Hetherege 2 v. — The Grangs 
 Garden 2 v. 
 
 Kinross, Albert. 
 An Opera and Lady Grasraere i v. 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard. 
 Plain Tales from the Hills i v. — Ti'O 
 Second Jungle Book i v. — The Seven 
 Seas IV. — "Captains Courageous" 
 IV. — The Day's Work i v. — A Fleet 
 in Being i v. — Stalky & Co. i v. — From 
 Sea to Sea 2 v. — The City of Dreadful 
 Night IV. — Kim i v. — Just So Stories i v. 
 — The Five Nations i v. — Traffics and 
 Discoveries i v. — Puck of Pook's Hill i v. 
 
 Laffan, May. 
 Flitters , Tatters , and the Counsellor, 
 etc. I v. 
 
 Lamb, Charles, •)■ 1834. 
 
 The Essays of Elia and Eliana i v. 
 
 Lang, Andrew: vide H. Rider 
 Haggard. 
 
 Langdon, Mary (Am.). 
 Ida May i v. 
 
 "Last of the Cavaliers, the," 
 Author of (Miss Piddington). 
 The Last of the Cavaliers 2 v. — The 
 Gain of a Loss 2 v. 
 
 •fcaszowska, Mr"e de: vide E. 
 Gerard. 
 
 Laurence, George Alfred, 
 Autlior of: vide " Guy Living- 
 stone." 
 
 Lawless, the Hon. Emily. 
 
 Hurrish i v. 
 
 " Leaves from the Journal of 
 our Life in the Highlands:" 
 vide Victoria R. L 
 
 Lee, Holme, ■[■ 1 900 : vide Harriet 
 
 Parr. 
 Lee, Vernon. 
 
 Popejacynth, etc. i v. — Genius Loci, and 
 The Enchanted Woods i v. — liortus 
 Vitac, and Limbo i v. 
 
 Le Fanu, J. S., f 1873. 
 Uncle Silas 2 v. — Guy Deverell 2 v. 
 
 Lemon, Mark, | 1870. 
 Wait for the End 2 v. — Loved at Last
 
 Taiichnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 17 
 
 2 V. — Falkner Lyle 2 v. — Leyton Hall, 
 and other Tales 2 v. — Golden Fetters 
 
 2 V. 
 
 "Letters of Her Mother to 
 Elizabeth, the," Author of: 
 vide W. R. H. Trowbridge. 
 
 Lever, Charles, f 1872. 
 
 The O'Donoghue i v. — The Knight of 
 Gwyune 3 v. — Arthur O'Leary 2 v. — 
 Harry Lorrequer 2 v. — Charles O'Mal- 
 ]ey 2 V. — Tom Burke of "Ours" 3V. — 
 Jack Hinton 2 v. — The Daltons 4 V.— 
 The Dodd Family Abroad 3 v. — The 
 Martins of Cro' Martin 3 v. — The For- 
 tunes of Glencore 2 v. — Roland Cashel 
 
 3 V. — Davenport Dunn 3 V. — Confessions 
 of Con Cregan 2 v. — One of Them 2 v. — 
 Maurice Tiernay 2 v. — Sir Jasper Carew 
 2 V. — Barrington 2 v. — A Day's Ride 
 2 V. — Luttrell of Arran 2 v. — Tony Butler 
 2 V. — Sir Brook Fossbrooke 2 v. — The 
 Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly 2 v. — A 
 Rent in a Cloud i v. — That Boy of Nor- 
 cotfs I V. — St. Patrick's Eve ; Paul 
 Gosslett's Confessions i v. — Lord Kil- 
 gobbin 2 V. 
 
 Levett -Yeats, S. 
 
 The Honour of Savelli i v. — The 
 Chevalier d'Auriac i v. —The Traitor's 
 Way I V. — The Lord Protector i v. — 
 Orrain i v. 
 
 Lewes, G. H., f 1878. 
 Ranthorpe i v. — The Physiology 01 
 Common Life 2 v. — On Actors and the 
 Art of Acting i v. 
 
 Linton, Mrs. E. Lynn, | 1898. 
 The true History of Joshua Davidson 
 IV. — Patricia Kemball 2 v. — The 
 Atonement of Learn Dundas 2 v. — The 
 World well Lost 2 v. — Under which 
 Lord? 2 V. — With a Silken Thread, and 
 other Stories i v. — Todhunters' at Loan- 
 in' Head, and other Stories i v. — "My 
 Love! " 2 V. — The Girl of the Period, 
 and other Social Essays i v. — lone 2 v. 
 
 Lockhart, Laurence W. M., 
 
 t 1882. 
 
 Mine is Thine 2 v. 
 
 Loftus, Lord Augustus. 
 
 Diplomatic Reminiscences 1837 - 1862 
 (with Portrait) 2 v. 
 
 Longard, M™e de: vide D. 
 Gerard. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wads- 
 worth (Am.), t 1882. 
 Poetical Works (with Portrait) 3 v. — 
 The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighicri 
 3 V. — The New-England Tragedies 1 v. 
 — The Divine Tragedy i v. — Flower-de- 
 Luce, and Three Books of Song i v. — 
 The Masque of Pandora, and other Poems 
 I v. 
 
 Lonsdale, Margaret. 
 Sister Dora (with a Portrait of Sister 
 Dora) I V. 
 
 Lorimer, George Horace (Am.). 
 Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to his 
 Son IV. — Old Gorgon Graham i v. 
 
 "Lost Battle, a," Author of. 
 A Lost Battle 2 v. 
 
 Lubbock, Sir John (Lord Ave- 
 
 bury). 
 The Pleasures of Life i v. — The Beau- 
 ties of Nature (with Illustrations) i v. — 
 The Use of Life i v. — Scenery of Switzer- 
 land (with Illustrations) 2 v. — Essays and 
 Addresses 1900- 1903 i v. 
 
 "Lutfullah": vide Eastwick. 
 
 Lyall, Edna, f 1903. 
 We Two 2 v. — Donovan 2 v. — In 
 the Golden Days 2 v. — Knight-Errant 
 2 V. — Won by Waiting 2 v. — Wayfaring 
 Men 2 v. — Hope the Hermit 2 v. — 
 Doreen 2 v. — In Spite of All 2 v. — The 
 Hinderers i v. 
 
 Lytton, Lord: vide E. Bulwer. 
 
 Lytton, Robert Lord (Owen 
 Meredith), f iSgi- 
 Poems 2 V. — Fables in Song 2 v. 
 
 Maartens, Maarten. 
 The Sin of Joost Avelingh i v. — An 
 Old Maid's Love 2 v. — God's Fool 2 v. 
 — The Greater Glory 2 v. — My Lady 
 Nobody 2 v. — Her Memory i v. — Some 
 Women I have known i v. — My Poor 
 Relations 2 v. — Dorothea 2 v. — The 
 Healers 2 v. —The Woman's Victory, and 
 Other Stories 2 v. — The New Religion 2 v. 
 
 M^'Aulay, Allan: vide Kate 
 
 Douglas Wiggin. 
 Macaulay, Lord, Thomas 
 Babington, j 1859. 
 Historv of England (with Portrait) 10 v. 
 Critical and Historical Essays 5 v. —
 
 i8 
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Lays of Ancient Rome i v. — Speeches 
 2 V. — Biographical Essays i v. — Wil- 
 liam Pitt, Atterbury i v. — (See also 
 Trevelyan). 
 
 M c Carthy, Justin. 
 The Waterdale Neighbours 2 v. — 
 Dear Lady Disdain 2 v. — Miss Misan- 
 tlirope 2 V. — A History of our Own Times 
 
 5 V. — Donna Quixote 2 v. — A Short 
 History of our Own Times 2 v. — A 
 History of the Four Georg-es. Vols, i & 
 2- — A History of our Own Times. Vols. 
 
 6 & 7 (supplemental). — A History of the 
 Four Georges and of William IV. Vols. 3, 
 4 & 5 (supplemental). — A Short History 
 of our Own Times. Vol. 5 (supplemental). 
 
 Mac Donald, George, •)■ 1905. 
 Alec Forbes of Howglen 2 v. — Annals 
 of a Quiet Neighbourhood 2 v. — David 
 Elginbrod 2 v. — The Vicar's Daughter 
 2 V. — Malcolm 2 v. — St. George and 
 St. Michael 2 v. — The Marquis of 
 Lossie 2 V. — Sir Gibbie 2 v. — M.iry 
 Marston 2 v. — The Gifts of the Child 
 Christ, and other Tales i v. — The Prin- 
 cess and Curdie i v. 
 
 Mackarness, Mrs., •}• 188 1. 
 Sunbeam Stories i v. — A Peerless 
 Wife 2 V. — A Mingled Yarn : v. 
 
 Mackay, Eric, f 189S. 
 
 Love Letters of a Violinist, and other 
 Poems I V. 
 
 Mc Knight, Charles (Am.). 
 Old Fort Duquesne 2 v. 
 
 Maclaren, Ian. 
 I'cside the Bonnie Brier Bush 1 v. — 
 The Days of Auld Langsyne i v. — His 
 Majesty Baby i v. 
 
 Macleod, Fiona, j 1905. 
 
 Wind and Wave i v. — The Sunset of Old 
 Tales I V. 
 
 Macleod, Norman, -j- 1872. 
 The Old Lieutenant and his Son 1 v. 
 
 Macpherson, James, y 1796: 
 vide Ossian. 
 
 Macquoid, Mrs. 
 Patty 2 V. — Miriam's Marriage 2 v. — 
 Pictures across the Channel 2 v. — Too 
 Soon I V. — My .Story 2 v. — Diane 2 v. 
 — Beside the River 2 v. — A Faithful 
 Lover 2 v. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Mori," Author 
 of (Miss Roberts). 
 Mademoiselle Mori 2 v. — Denise 1 v. 
 — Madame Fontenoy i v. — On the 
 Edge of the Storm i v. — The Atelier du 
 Lys 2 V. — In the Olden Time 2 v. 
 
 Mahon, Lord: vide Stanhope. 
 
 Maine, E. S. 
 ScarscUif Rocks 2 v. 
 
 Malet, Sir Edward, G.C.B., 
 G.C.M.G. 
 
 Shifting Scenes i v. 
 
 Malet, Lucas (IMrs. Mary St. 
 Leger Harrison). 
 Colonel Enderby's Wife 2 v. — The 
 History of Sir Richard Calmady 3 V. — The 
 Far Horizon 2 v. 
 
 Malmesbury, the Earl of, G.C.B. 
 Memoirs of an Ex-Minister 3 v. 
 
 Mann, Mary E. 
 A Winter's Tale i v. — The Cedar 
 Star I v. 
 
 Mansfield, Robert Blachford. 
 The Log of the Water Lily i v. 
 
 Mark Twain: vide Twain. 
 
 "Marmorne," Author of: vide 
 P. G. Hamerton. 
 
 Marryat, Capt., \ 1848. 
 Jacob Faithful (with Portrait) 1 v. — 
 Percival Keene i v. — Peter Simple 1 v. — 
 Taphet in Search of a Father i v. — 
 Monsieur Violet 1 v. — The Settlers in 
 Canada i v. — The Mission i v. — The 
 I'rivateer's-Man i v. — The Children ot 
 the New-Forest i v. — Valerie i v. — 
 ilr. Midshipman Easy i v. — The King's 
 Own I V. 
 
 Marryat, Florence, -j- 1899. 
 Love's Conflict 2 v. — For Ever and 
 Ever 2 V. — The Confessions of Gerald 
 Estcourt 2 v. — Nelly Brooke 2 v. — 
 Veronique 2 v. — Petronel 2 v. — Her 
 Lord and Master 2 v. — The Prey of the 
 Gods IV. — Life and Letters of Captain 
 Marryat i v. — ^lad Duniaresq 2 v. — 
 No Intentions 2 v. — Fighting the Air 
 2 v. — A Star and a Heart ; An Utter Im- 
 possibility IV. — The Poison of Asps, 
 and other Stories i v. — A Lucky Disap- 
 pointment, and other .Stories i v. — " ity 
 own Child" 2 v. — Her Father's Name
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 19 
 
 2 V. — A Harvest of Wild Oats 2 v. — 
 A Little Stepson i v. — Written in Fire 
 2 V. — Her World against a Lie 2 v. — 
 A Broken Blossom 2 v. — The Root of 
 all Evil 2 V. — The Fair-haired Alda 2 v. — 
 With Cupid's Eyes 2 v. — My Sister the 
 Actress 2 v. — Phyllida 2 v. — How they 
 loved Hira 2 v. — Facing the Footlights 
 (with Portrait) 2 v. — A Moment of Mad- 
 ness, and other Stories i v. — The Ghost 
 of Charlotte Cray, and other Stories 
 IV. — Peeress and Player 2 v. — Under 
 the Lilies and Roses 2 v. — The Heart 
 of Jane Warner 2 v. — The Heir Pre- 
 sumptive 2 V. — The Master Passion 2 v. 
 
 — Spiders of Society 2 v. — Driven to Bay 
 2 V. — A Daughter of the Tropics 2 v. — 
 Gentleman and Courtier 2 v. — On Cir- 
 cumstantial Evidence 2 v. — Mount Eden. 
 A Romance 2 v. — Blindfold 2 v. — A 
 Scarlet Sin i v. — A Bankrupt Heart 2 v. 
 
 — The Spirit World i v. — The Beautiful 
 Soul I v. — At Heart a Rake 2 v. — 
 The Strange Transfiguration of Hannah 
 Stubbs I v. — The Dream that Stayed 
 2 V. — A Passing Madness i v. — The 
 Blood of the Vampire i v. — A Soul on 
 Fire IV. — Iris the Avenger i v. 
 
 Marsh, Mrs. Anne (Caldwell), 
 t 1874- 
 
 Ravenscliffe 2 v. — Emilia Wyndham 
 2 V. — Castle Avon 2 v. — Aubrey 2 v. — 
 The Heiress of Haughton 2 v. — Evelyn 
 Marston 2 v. — The Rose of Asburst 2 v. 
 
 Marshall, Mrs. Emma, j 1899, 
 Mrs. Mainwaring's Journal i v. — 
 Benvenuta i v. — Lady Alice i v. — 
 Dayspring i v. — Life's Aftermath i v. — 
 In the East Country i v. — No. XIII; or, 
 The Story of the Lost Vestal i v. — In 
 Four Reigns i v. — On the Banks of the 
 Ouse IV. — In the City of Flowers i v. — 
 Alma IV. — Under Salisbury Spire i v. 
 
 — The End Crowns All i v. —Winchester 
 Meads IV. — Eventide Light i v. — 
 Winifrede's Journal i v. — Bristol Bells 
 IV. — In the Service of Rachel Lady 
 Russell IV. — A Lily among Thorns i v. 
 
 — Penshurst Castle i v. — Kensington 
 Palace i v. — The White King's Daughter 
 IV. — The Master of the Musicians i v. 
 
 — An Escape from the Tower i v. — A 
 Haunt of Ancient Peace i v. — Castle 
 Meadow i v. — In the Choir of West- 
 minster Abbey i v. — The Young Queen 
 of Hearts 1 v. — Under the Dome of St. 
 Paul's IV. — The Parson's Daughter 
 1 V. 
 
 Mason, A. E. W. 
 
 The Four Feathers 2 v. — Miranda of 
 the Balcony i v. — The Courtship of Mor- 
 rice Buckler 2 v. — The Truants 2 v. — 
 The Watchers t v. — Running Water i v. 
 
 — The Broken Road i v. 
 
 Mathers, Helen (LIrs. Henry 
 Reeves). 
 
 "Cherry Ripe!" 2 v. — "Land o' the 
 Leal " IV. — My Lady Green Sleeves 2 v. 
 
 — As he comes up the Stair, etc. i v. — 
 Sam's Sweetheart 2 v. — Eyre's Acquittal 
 2 v. — Found Out IV. — Murder or Man- 
 slaughter? IV. — The Fashion of this 
 World(8oPf.)— Blind justice, and "Who, 
 being dead, yet Speaketh " i v. — What 
 the Glass Told, and A Study of a Woman 
 IV. — Bam Wildfire 2 v. — Becky 2 v. — 
 Cinders i v. — " Honey " i v. — Griff of 
 Griffithscourt i v. — The New Lady Teazle, 
 and Other Stories and Essays i v. — The 
 Ferryman i v. — Tally Ho I 2 v. — Pigskin 
 and Petticoat 2 v. 
 
 Maurice, Colonel. 
 The Balance of Military Power in 
 Europe i v. 
 
 Maurier, George du, j 1896. 
 Trilby 2 V. — The Martian 2 v. 
 
 Maxwell, Mrs.:r.MissBraddon. 
 
 Maxwell, W. B. 
 The Ragged Messenger 2 v. — TheGuarded 
 Flame 2 v. 
 
 "Mehalah," Author of: vide 
 
 Baring-Gould. 
 
 Melville, George J. Whyte, 
 
 t 1878. 
 Kate Coventry i v. — Holmby Hodse 
 2 v. — Digby Grand i v. — Good for No- 
 thing 2 V. — The Queen's Maries 2 v. — 
 The Gladiators 2 v. — The Brookes of 
 Bridlemere 2 v. — Cerise 2 v. — The 
 Interpreter 2 v. — The White Rose 2 v. — 
 M. or N. I V. — Contraband i v. — 
 Sarchedon 2 v. — Unclejohn 2 v. — 
 Katerfelto i v. — Sister Louise i v. — 
 Rosine i v. — Roys' Wife 2 v. — Black 
 butComely 2 v. — RidingRecollectionsiv. 
 
 Memorial Volumes: vide Five 
 Centuries (vol. 500); The New 
 Testament (vol. 1000); Henry 
 Morley (vol. 2000).
 
 20 
 
 Tauclinitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Meredith, George. 
 
 The Ordeal of Richard Feverel 2 v. — 
 Beauchamp's Career 2 v. — The Tragic 
 Comedians i v. — Lord Orraont and his 
 Aminta 2 v. — The Amazing Marriage 
 2 V. 
 
 Meredith, Owen: vide Robert 
 Lord Lytton. 
 
 Merrick, Leonard. 
 
 The Man who was good 1 v. — This 
 Stage of Fools i v. — Cynthia i v. — One 
 Man's View i v. — The Actor-Manager 
 IV. — The Worldlings i v. — When Love 
 flies out o' the Window i v. — Conrad in 
 Quest of His Youth 1 v. — The Quaint 
 Companions i v. — Whispers about Women 
 I V. 
 
 Merriman, Henry Seton,-j- 1903. 
 Young Mistley i v. — Prisoners and 
 Captives 2 v. — From One Generation to 
 Another i v. — With Edged Tools 2 v. — 
 The Sowers 2 v. — Flotsam i v. — In 
 Kedar's Tents i v. — Roden's Corner 
 I V. — The Isle of Unrest i v. — The Velvet 
 Glove I V. — The Vultures i v. — Barlasch 
 of the Guard i v. — Tomaso's Fortune, and 
 Other Stories i v. — The Last Hope 2 v. 
 
 Merriman, H. S., & S. G. Tallen- 
 tyre. 
 The Money-Spinner, etc. i v. 
 
 Milne, James. 
 The Epistles of Atkins i v. 
 
 Milton, John, j 1674. 
 Poetical Works i v. 
 
 "Molly, Miss," Author of. 
 Geraldine Hawthorne i v. 
 
 "Molly Bav/n," Author of: vide 
 Mrs. Hungerford. 
 
 Montgomery, Florence. 
 
 Misunderstood i v. — Thrown To- 
 gether 2 v. — Thwarted 1 v. — Wild !Mike 
 IV. — Seaforth 2 v. — The Blue Veil 
 
 1 V. — Transformed i v. — The Fisher- 
 ni.Tu's Daughter , etc. i v. — Colonel 
 Korton 2 v. — Prejudged i v. — An L'a- 
 slu'.red Secret, and Other Tales i v. 
 
 Moore, Frank Frankfort. 
 "I Forbid the Bauns" 2 v. — A Gray 
 Eye or So 2 v. — One Fair Daughter 
 
 2 v. — Tliey Call it Love 2 v. — The 
 Jessamy Bride i v. — The ^Millionaires i v. 
 — Nell Gwyn — Comedian i v. — A Damsel 
 
 or Two IV. — Castle Oraeragh 2 v. — Ship- 
 mates in Sunshine 2 v. — The Original 
 Woman 1 v. — The White Causeway i v. 
 
 — The Artful Miss Dill i v. — The Mar- 
 riage Lease i v. 
 
 Moore, George. 
 
 Celibates i v. — Evelyn Innes 2 v. — 
 Sister Teresa 2 v. — The Untilled Field i v. 
 
 — Confessions of a Young Man i v. — The 
 Lake i v. — Memoirs of my Dead Life i v. 
 
 Moore, Thomas, f 1852. 
 Poetical Works (with Portrait) 5 v. 
 
 Morgan, Lady, •)- 1859. 
 Memoirs 3 v. 
 
 Morley, Henry, -j- 1894. 
 Of English Literature in the Reign of 
 Victoria. With Facsimiles of the Signa- 
 tures of Authors in the Tauchnitz Edition 
 (v. 2000, published 1881) i v. 
 
 Morris, William. 
 A Selection from his Poems. Edited 
 with a Memoir by F. Hueffer i v. 
 
 Morrison, Arthur. 
 Tales of Mean Streets i v. — A Child 
 of the Jago i v. — To London Town i v. 
 
 — Cunning Murrell i v. — The Hole in the 
 Wall I V. — The Green Eye of Goona i v. 
 
 — Divers Vanities i v. 
 
 Muirhead, James Fullarton. 
 
 The I^and of Contrasts i v. 
 
 Mulock, Miss: vide Mrs. Craik. 
 
 Murray, David Christie. 
 Rainbow Gold 2 v. 
 
 Murray, Grenville: z/.Grenville. 
 
 "My Little Lady," Author of: 
 
 vide E. Frances Poynter. 
 
 New Testament, the. 
 The Authorised English Version , with 
 Introduction and Various Readings from 
 the three most celebrated Manuscripts of 
 the Original Text, by Constan tine Tischen- 
 dorf (vol. 1000, published 1869) i v. 
 
 Newby, Mrs. C. J. 
 Common Sense 2 v. 
 
 Newman, Dr. J. H. (Cardinal 
 Newmau), -j- 1890. 
 Callista I v. 
 
 Nicholls, Mrs.: evJtCurrcr Bell. 
 "Nina Balatka," Author of: 
 vide Anthony Tiollopc.
 
 Tauchniiz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 21 
 
 "No Church," Author of (F. 
 Robinson). 
 No Church 2 v. — Owen :— a Waif 2 v. 
 
 Noel, Lady Augusta. 
 From Generation to Generation i v. — 
 Hithersea Mere 2 v. 
 
 N orris, Frank (Am.), t 1902. 
 The Octopus 2 v. — The Pit 2 v. 
 
 N orris, W. E. 
 Mj' Friend Jim i v. — A Bachelor's 
 Bhinder 2 v. — Major and Minor 2 v. — 
 TheRo-^ue 2 v. — MissShafto 2 v. — Mrs. 
 Fenton i v. — Misadventure 2 v. — Saint 
 Ann's IV. — A Victim of Good Luck 
 1 V. — The Dancer in Yellow i v. — 
 Clarissa Furiosa 2 v. — Marietta's Mar- 
 riage 2 V. — The Fight for the Crown 
 I v"— TheWidower i v.— Giles Ingilby i v. 
 — The Flower of the Flock i v. — His 
 Own Father i v.— The Credit of the County 
 IV. — Lord Leonard the Luckless i v. — 
 Nature's Comedian i v. — Nigel'sVocation 
 I V. — Barham of Beltan a i v. — Harry and 
 Ursula I V. — The Square Peg i v. 
 
 Norton, Hon. Mrs., f 1877. 
 Stuart of Dunleath 2 v. — Lost and 
 Saved 2 V. — Old Sir Douglas 2 v. 
 
 "Not Easily Jealous," Author of 
 (Miss Iza Hardy). 
 Not Easily Jealous 2 v. 
 
 "Novels and Tales": -vide 
 
 "Household Words." 
 O'Conor Eccles, Charlotte (Hal 
 
 Godfrey). 
 The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore i v. 
 — The "Matrimonial Lottery i v. 
 
 Oldmeadow, Ernest. 
 Susan I V. 
 
 Oliphant, Laurence, f 1888. 
 Altiora Peto 2 v. — Masollam 2 v. 
 
 Oliphant, Mrs., f 1S97. 
 The Last of the Mortimers 2 v. — Mrs. 
 Margaret ^Maitland i v. — Agnes 2 v. — 
 Madonna Mary 2 v. — The Minister's 
 Wife 2 V. — The Rector and the Doctor's 
 Family i v. ■ — Salem Chapel 2 v. — The 
 Perpetual Curate 2 v. — Miss Marjori- 
 banks 2 v. — Ombra 2 v. — Memoir of 
 Count de Moutalembert 2 v. — May 2 v. — 
 Innocent 2 v. — For Love and Life 2V. — 
 A Rose in June i v. — The Story of 
 Valentine and his Brother 2 v. — White- 
 ladies 2 V. — The Curate in Charge i v. — 
 Phoebe, j uuior 2 v. — Mrs. Arthur 2 v. — 
 
 Carita 2 v. — Young Musgrave 2 v. — 
 The Primrose Path 2 v. — Within the 
 Precincts 3 v. — The Greatest Heiress in 
 England 2 v. — He that will not when he 
 may 2 v. — Harry Joscelyn 2 v. — In 
 Trust 2 V. — It was a Lover and his Lass 
 3 V. — The Ladies Lindores 3 v. — Hester 
 3 V. — The Wizard's Son 3 v. — A 
 Country Gentleman and his Family 2 v. — 
 Neighbours on theGreen I v.— TheDuke's 
 Daughter i v. — The Fugitives 1 v. — 
 Kirsteen 2V. — Life of Laurence Oliphant 
 and of Alice Oliphant, hisWife 2 v. — The 
 Little Pilgrim in the Unseen i v. — The 
 Heir Presumptive and the Heir Apparent 
 2 V. — The Sorceress 2 v. — Sir Robert's 
 Fortune 2 v. — The Ways of Life i v. — 
 Old Mr. Tredgold 2 v. 
 
 "One who has kept a Diary": 
 vide George W. E. Russell. 
 
 Osbourne, Lloyd (Am.). 
 Baby Bullet i v. — Wild Justice i v. — The 
 Motormaniacs i v. 
 
 Ossian. 
 The Poems of Ossian. Translated by 
 James Macpherson i v. 
 
 Ouida. 
 Idalia 2 v. — Tricotrin 2 v. — Puck 2 v. — 
 Chandos 2 v. — Strathmore 2 v. — Under 
 two Plags 2 V. — Folle-Farine 2 v. — A 
 Leaf in the Storm; A Dog of Flanders; 
 A Branch of Lilac; A Provence Rose 
 IV. — Cecil Castleniaine"s Gage, and other 
 Novelettes i v. — Madame la Marquise, 
 and other Novelettes i v. — Pascarel 2 v. 
 -^ Held in Bondage 2 v. — Two little 
 Wooden Shoes i v. — Signa(with Portrait) 
 3V.— InaWinterCity IV. — Ariadne2v.— 
 Friendship 2 v. — Moths 3 v. — Pipistrello, 
 and other Stories i v. — A Village Com- 
 mune 2 V. — In Maremma 3 v. — Bimbi 
 IV. — Wanda 3 V. — Frescoes and other 
 Stones IV. — Princess Napraxine 3 V. — 
 Othmar 3 v. — A Rainyjune (ooPf.). Don 
 Gesualdo (60 Pf.) . — A House Party i v. — 
 Guilderoy 2 v.— Syrlin 3 v. — Ruffino, and 
 other Stories i v. — Santa Barbara, etc. 
 I V. — Two Offenders i v. — The Silver 
 Christ, etc. i v. —Toxin, and other Papers 
 I V. — Le Selve, and Tonia i v. — The 
 Massarenes 2 v. — An Altruist, and Four 
 Essays i v. — La Strega, and other 
 Stories i v. — The Waters of Edera i v. 
 — Street Dust, and Other Stories i v. — 
 Critical Studies i v. 
 
 "Outcasts, the," Author of: vide 
 " Roy Tellet."
 
 Tattchnitz Edition. Compl<:te List. 
 
 Parker, Sir Gilbert 
 
 The Battle of the Strong 2 v. — Donovan 
 Pasha, and Some People of Egjpt i v. — 
 The Seats of the Mighty 2 v. 
 
 Parr, Harriet (Holme Lee), 
 j 1900. 
 
 Basil Godfrey's Caprice 2 v. — For 
 Richer, for Poorer 2 v. — The Beautiful 
 jMiss Barrington 2 v. — Her Title of 
 Honour i v. — Echoes of a Famous 
 Year i v. — Katherine's Trial i v. — The 
 Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax 2 v. — Ben 
 jMilner's Wooing i v. — Straightforward 
 2V. — Mrs. Denysof Cote 2 v. — A Poor 
 Squire i v. 
 
 Parr, Mrs. 
 Dorothy Fox i v. — The Prescotts of 
 Pamphillon 2 v. — The Gosau Smithy, etc. 
 1 V. — Robin 2 v. — Loyalty George 2 v. 
 
 Paston, George. 
 A Study in Prejudices i v. — A Fair 
 Deceiver i v. 
 
 Pasture, Mrs. Henry de la. 
 
 The Lonely Lady of Grosvenor Square i v. 
 
 Paul, Mrs. : z/zif^ Author of " Still 
 Waters." 
 
 " Paul Ferroll," Author of (Mrs. 
 Caroline Clive), j- 1873. 
 Paul Ferroll i v. — Year after Year 1 v. 
 — Why Paul Ferroll killed his Wife i v. 
 
 Payn, James, j 1898. 
 Found Dead i v. — Gwendoline's Har- 
 vest IV. — Like Father, hke Son 2 v. — 
 Not Wooed, but Won 2 v. — Cecil's Trj'st 
 
 1 V. — A Woman's Vengeance 2 v. — 
 Murphy's Master i v. — In the Heart of 
 a Hill, and other Stories i v. — At Her 
 Mercy 2 v. — The Best of Husbands 2 v. — 
 Walter's Word 2 v. — Halves 2 v. — 
 Fallen Fortunes 2 v. — What He cost Her 
 2v — By Proxy 2 v. — Less Black than 
 we're Painted 2 v. — Under one Roof 
 
 2 V. — High Spirits i v. — High Spirits 
 (Si'cond Serifs) 1 v. — A Confidential 
 Agent 2 V. — From Exile 2 v. — A Grape 
 from a Thorn 2 v. — Some Private Views 
 IV. — For Cash Only 2 v. — Kit : A Me- 
 mory 2 V. — The Canon's Ward (with 
 Portrait) 2 v. — Some Literary Re- 
 collections IV. — The Talk of the Town 
 IV. — The Luck of the Darrells 2 v. — 
 llie Heir ofthe Ages2 v. — HolidayTasks 
 IV. — Glow -Worm Tales 1 1-irsf Serif s) 
 IV. — Glow- Worm 'I'ales (Second Series) 
 
 1 V. — A Prince of the Blood 2 v. — The 
 Mystery of Mirbridge 2 v. — The Burnt 
 Million 2 V. — The Word and the Will 
 
 2 V. — Sunny Stories, and some Shady 
 Ones IV. — A Alodern Dick Whitting- 
 ton 2 V. — A Stumble on the Threshold 
 2 V. — A Trying Patient i v. — Gleams 
 of Memory, and The Eavesdropper i v. — 
 In Market Overt 1 v. — The Disappear- 
 ance of George DrifFell, and other Talcs 
 IV. — Another's Burdeu etc. i v. — The 
 Backwater of Life, or Essays of a Literaiy 
 Veteran i v. 
 
 Peard, Frances Mary. 
 One Year 2 V. — The Rose-Garden 1 v. — 
 Unawares i v. — Thorpe Regis i v. — A 
 Winter Story 1 v. — A Madrigal, and 
 other Stories i v. — Cartouche i v. — 
 Mother Molly i v. — Schloss and Town 
 2 V. — Contradictions 2 v. — Near Neigh- 
 bours IV. — Alicia Tennant i v. — Ma- 
 darae's Granddaughter i v. — Donna 
 Teresa i v. — Number One and Number 
 Two IV. — The Ring from Jaipur i v. 
 
 Pemberton, Max. 
 The Impregnable City i v. — A Woman 
 of Kronstadt i v. — The Phantom Army 
 I v. — The Garden of Swords i v. — The 
 Footsteps of a Throne 1 v. — Pro Patria i v. 
 
 — The Giant's Gate 2 v. — I crown thee 
 King IV. — The House under the Sea i v. 
 
 — The Gold Wolf I v. — Doctor Xavieri v. 
 
 — Red Morn i v. — Beatrice of Venice 2 v. 
 
 — Mid the Thick Arrows 2 v. — My Sword 
 for Lafayette i v. — The Lady Evelyn i v. 
 
 — The Diamond Ship i v. — The Lodestar 
 
 1 V. 
 
 Percy, Bishop Thomas, j 181 1. 
 
 Reliques of Ancient English Poetry 3 V. 
 
 Philips, F. C. 
 As in a Looking Glass 1 v. — The Dean 
 and his Daughter i v. — Lucy Smith i v. — 
 A Lucky Young Woman i v. — Jack and 
 Threejills i v. — Little Mrs. Murray 1 v. — 
 Young Mr.Ainslie's Courtshipiv. — Social 
 Vicissitudes i v. — Extenuating Circum- 
 stances, and A French Marriage 1 v. — 
 More Social Vicissitudes iv. — Constance 
 
 2 V. — That Wicked Mad'moiselle, etc. 
 IV. — A Doctor in Difficulties, etc. i v. — 
 Black and White i v. — *' One Never 
 Knows" 2 v. — Of Course 1 v. — Miss 
 Ormerod's Protege i v. — My little Hus- 
 band IV. — Mrs. Bouverie i v. — A 
 Question of Colour, andotherStorics iv. — 
 A Devil in Nun's Veiling i v. — A Full 
 Confession, and other Stories i v. — Tlie 
 Luckiest of Three i v. — Poor Little Bella
 
 Tanchnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 23 
 
 I V. — Eliza Clarke, Governess, and Other 
 Stories i v. — Marriage, etc. i v. — School- 
 girls of To-day, etc. i v. — If Only, etc. i v. 
 — An Unfortunate Blend i v. — A Bar- 
 rister's Courtship I V. 
 
 Philips, F. C. & Percy Fendall. 
 A Daughter's Sacrifice iv. — Margaret 
 Byng I V. 
 
 Philips, F. C. & C. J. Wills. 
 Tlie Fatal Phrj'neiv. — The Scudamores 
 IV. — A Maiden Fair to See i v. — Sybil 
 Ross's Marriage i v. 
 
 Phillpous, Eden. 
 Lying Prophets 2 v. — The Human Boy 
 IV. — Sons of the Morning 2 v. — The 
 Good Red Earth i v.— The Striking Hours 
 
 1 V. — The Farm of the Dagger i v. — 
 The Golden Fetich i v. — The Whirlwind 
 
 2 V. 
 
 Phillpotts, E. & Arnold Bennett 
 
 The Sinevps of War i v. 
 
 Piddington, Miss: vide Kwihorok 
 "The Last of the Cavaliers." 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan (Am.),f 1849. 
 Poems and Essays , edited with a new 
 Memoir by John H. Ingram i v. — Tales, 
 edited by John H. Ingram i v. 
 
 Pope, Alexander, f I744- 
 Select Poetical Works (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 Poynter, Miss E. Frances. 
 My Little Lady 2 v. — Ersilia 2 v. — 
 Among the Hills i v. — Madame de 
 Presnel i v. 
 
 Praed, Mrs. Campbell. 
 Zero IV. — Affinities i v. — The Head 
 Station 2 V. 
 
 Prentiss, Mrs. E. (Am.), j 1878. 
 Stepping Heavenward i v. 
 
 Prince Consort, the, f 1861. 
 His Principal Speeches and Addresses 
 (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 Pryce, Richard. 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections i v. — The 
 Quiet Mrs. Fleming i v. — Time and the 
 Woman i v. 
 
 Pym, Hor. N.: v. Caroline Fox. 
 
 Queen, H. M. the: j-zif^ Victoria 
 
 R. I. 
 
 Quiller-Couch, A. T. ("Q")- 
 Noughts and Crosses i v. — I Saw Three 
 Ships I V. — Dead Man's Rock i v. — la 
 and other Tales i v. — The Ship of Stars 
 IV. — The Adventures of Harry Revel i v. 
 
 — Fort Amity i v. — Shakespeare's Christ- 
 mas, and Other Stories i v. — The Mayor 
 of Troy i v. — Merry-Garden, and Other 
 Stories i v. 
 
 Rae, W. Fraser, f 1005. 
 Westward by Rail i v. — Miss Bayle's 
 Romance 2 v. — The Business ofTravel i v. 
 
 Raimond, C. E. (Miss Robins). 
 The Open Question 2 v. — The Magnetic 
 North 2 v. — A Dark Lantern 2 v. 
 
 "Rajah's Heir, the," Author of. 
 The Rajah's Heir 2 v. 
 
 Reade, Charles, f 1884. 
 "It is never too late to mend" 2 v. — 
 "Love me little, love me long'' i v. — 
 The Cloister and the Hearth 2 v. — Hard 
 Cash 3 V. — Put Yourself in his Place 2 v. — 
 A Terrible Temptation 2 v. — Peg Wof- 
 fington IV. — Christie Johnstone i v. — 
 A Simpleton 2 v. — The Wandering Heir 
 IV. — A Woman-Hater 2 v. — Readiana 
 
 1 V. — Singleheart and Doubleface i v. 
 
 "Recommended to Mercy," 
 
 Author of (Mrs. Houstoun). 
 "Recommended to Mercy" 2 v. — Zoe's 
 "Brand" 2 v. 
 
 Reeves, Mrs.: z/. Helen Mathers. 
 
 Rhys, Grace. 
 Mary Dominic i v. — The Wooing of 
 Sheila i v. 
 
 Rice, James: v. Walter BesanL 
 
 Richards, Alfred Bate, f 1876. 
 So very Human 3 v. 
 
 Richardson, S., "j- 1761. 
 Clarissa Harlowe 4 v. 
 
 Riddell, Mrs. (F. G. TraiTord). 
 George Geith of Fen Court 2 v. — Max- 
 well Drewitt 2 v. — The Race for Wealth. 
 
 2 V. — Far above Rubies 2 v. — The Earl's 
 Promise 2 v. — Jlortomley's Estate 2 v. 
 
 Ridge, W. Pett. 
 
 Name of Garland i v. 
 
 " Rita." 
 
 Souls I V. — The Jesters i v. — The Mas- 
 queraders 2 v. — Queer Lady Judas 2 v. — 
 Prince Charming i v. — The Pointing 
 Finger i v. — A Man of no Importance i v. 
 Ritchie, Mrs. Anne Thackeray: 
 
 vide Miss Thackeray. 
 Roberts, Miss: vide Author of 
 "Mademoiselle Mori."
 
 Tmichnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Robertson, Rev, Frederick W., 
 
 t 1853. 
 
 Sermons 4 v. 
 
 Robins, Miss: vide Raimond. 
 
 Robinson, F.: vide Author of 
 "No Church." 
 
 Roosevelt, Theodore (Am.). 
 
 Outdoor Pastimes of an American Hunter 
 (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 Ross, Charles H. 
 The Pretty Widow i v. — A London 
 Komance 2 v. 
 
 Ross, Martin : vide Scmerville. 
 
 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, -j- 1882. 
 Poeras IV. — Ballads and Sonnets i v. 
 
 "Roy Tellet." 
 The Outcasts 1 v. — A Draught of 
 Lethe i v. — Pastor and Prelate 2 v. 
 
 Ruffini, J., f 1881. 
 Lavinia 2 v. — Doctor Antonio i v. — 
 Lorenzo Benoni i v. — Vincenzo 2 v. — 
 A Quiet Nook in the Jura i v. — The 
 Para.^reens on a Visit to Paris i v. — 
 Carlino, and other Stories i v. 
 
 Ruskin, John, | 1902. 
 
 Sesame and Lilies i v. — The Stones of 
 Venice (with Illustrations) 2 v. — Unto this 
 Last and Muncra Pulvcris i v. — The Seven 
 Lamps of Architecture (with 14 Illustra- 
 tions) IV. — Mornings in Florence i v. 
 
 Russell, W. Clark. 
 A Sailor's Sweetheart 2 v. — The "Lady 
 ]Maud" 2 v. — A Sea Queen 2 v. 
 
 Russell, George W. E. 
 Collections and Recollections. By One 
 who has kept a Diary 2 v. — A Londoner's 
 Log-Book I V. 
 
 Sala, George Augustus, j- 1895. 
 
 The Seven Sons of Alammon 2 v. 
 
 Saunders, John. 
 Israel Mort, Overman 2 v. — The Ship- 
 owner's Daughter 2 v. — A Noble Wife 2 v. 
 
 Saunders, Katherine (Mrs. 
 Cooper). 
 
 Joan Merr\-weat!icr , and other Tales 
 IV. — Gideon's Rock, and other Tales 
 J V. — The High Mills 2 v. — Sebastian i v. 
 
 Savage, Richard Henry (Am.), 
 
 t 1903- 
 My Official Wife i v. — The Little Lady 
 of Lagunitas (with Portrait) 2 v. — Prince 
 Schamyl's Wooing i v. — The Masked 
 Venus 2 V. — Delilah of Harlem 2 v. —The 
 Anarchist 2 v. — A Daughter of Judas 
 I V. — In the Old Chateau i v. — Miss 
 Devereux of the Mariquita 2 v. —Checked 
 Through 2 v. — A Modem Corsair 2 v. — 
 In the Swim 2 v. — The White Lady of 
 Khaminavatka 2 v. — In the House of His 
 Friends 2 v.— The Mystery of a Shipyard 2 v. 
 — A Monte Cristo in Khaki i v. 
 
 Schreiner, Olive. 
 
 Trooper Peter Halket of Mashona- 
 land I v. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, f 1832. 
 Waverley (with Portrait) i v. — The 
 Antiquary i v. — Ivanhoe i v. — Kenil- 
 worth IV. — Quentin Durward i v. — Old 
 Mortality i v. — Guy Mannering i v. — 
 Rob Roy IV. — The Pirate i v. — The 
 Fortunes of Nigel i v. — The Black Dwarf; 
 A Legend of Montrose i v. — The Bride 
 of Lammermoori v. — The Heart of !M id- 
 Lothian 2 V. — The Monastery i v. — The 
 Abbot IV. — Peveril of the Peak 2 v. — 
 Poetical Works 2 v. — Woodstock i v. — 
 The Fair Maid of Perth i v. — Anne of 
 Geierstein i v. 
 
 Seeley, Prof. J. R., M.A., f 1 895. 
 Life and Times of Stein (with a Portrait 
 of Stein) 4 V. — The Expansion of Eng- 
 land IV. — Goethe i v. 
 
 Sewell, Elizabeth, \ 1906. 
 Amy Herbert 2 v. — Ursula 2 v. — A 
 Glimpse of the World 2 v. — The Journal 
 of a Plome Life 2 v. — After Life 2 v. — 
 The Experience of Life 2 v. 
 
 Shakespeare, William, \ 16 16. 
 Plays and Poems (with Portrait) (Second 
 Eiii/innJ 7 v. — Doubtful Plays i v. 
 
 S/inkfSpeare's Plays may also be had in 
 37 numbers, at ./if 0,30. each number. 
 
 Sharp, William: vide Miss 
 Hov/ard .and Swinburne. 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, -j- 1822. 
 A Selection from his Poems i v. 
 
 Shcppard, Nathan (Am.), -j- iSSS. 
 Shut up in Paris i v.
 
 Tatichnitz Editi07i. Complete List. 
 
 Sheridan , Richard Brinsley, 
 t 1816. 
 The Dramatic Works i x. 
 
 Shorthouse, J. Henry. 
 John Inglesanc 2 v. — Blanche, Lady 
 Falaise i v. 
 
 Slatin Pasha, Rudolf C, C.B. 
 Fire and Sword in the Sudan (with 
 two Maps in Colours) 3 v. 
 
 Smedley, F. E. : vide Author of 
 "Frank Fairlegh." 
 
 Smollett, Tobias, y 1771. 
 Roderick Random i v. — Humphry 
 Clinker i v. — Peregrine Pickle 2 v. 
 
 " Society in London," Author of. 
 Society in London. By a Foreign 
 Resident i v. 
 
 Somerville, E. CE., & Martin 
 
 Ross. 
 
 Naboth's Vineyard i v. — All on the 
 Irish Shore i v. 
 
 "Spanish Brothers, the," Author 
 of 
 The Spanish Brothers 2 v. 
 
 Stanhope, Earl (Lord Mahon), 
 
 t 1875- 
 The Historj' of England 7 V. — Reigii 
 of Queen Anne 2 v. 
 
 Steel, Flora Annie. 
 The Hosts of the Lord 2 v. — In the 
 Guardianship of God i v. 
 
 Steevens, G. W., j 1900. 
 From Capetown to Ladysmith i v. 
 
 Sterne, Laurence, -j- 1768. 
 Tristram Shandy i v. — A Sentimental 
 Journey {with Portrait) 1 v. 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis, j 1 894. 
 Treasure Island i v. — Dr. Jekj'll and 
 Mr. Hyde, and An Inland Voyage i v. — 
 Kidnapped i v. — The Black Arrow i v. — 
 The Master of Ballantrae IV. — The Merry 
 Men, etc. i v. — Across the Plains, etc. i v. 
 — Island Nights' Entertainments i v. — 
 Catriona i v. — Weir of Hermiston i v. — 
 St. Ives 2 V. — In the South Seas 2 v. — 
 Tales and Fantasies i v. 
 
 •"Still V/aters," Author of (Mrs. 
 Paul). 
 Still Waters i v. — Dorothy i v. — De 
 Cressy i v. — Uncle Ralph i v. — Maiden 
 
 Sisters i v. — Martha Brown i v. — Vanessa 
 
 1 V. 
 
 Stirling, M. C: vide G. M. Craik. 
 
 Stockton, Frank R. (Am.). 
 The House of Martha i v. 
 
 "Story of a Penitent Soul, the," 
 Author of. 
 The Story of a Penitent Soul i v. 
 
 "Story of Elizabeth, the," Author 
 of: vide Miss Thackeray. 
 
 Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher 
 (Am.), j 1896. 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin (with Portrait) 2 v. — 
 A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin 2 v. — Dred 
 
 2 V. — The Minister's Wooing i v. — Old- 
 town Folks 2 V. 
 
 "Sunbeam Stories," Author of: 
 vide Mrs. Mackarness. 
 
 Swift, Jonathan (Dean Swift), 
 t 1745- 
 
 Gulliver's Travels i v. 
 
 Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 
 
 Atalanta in Calydon : and Lyrical Poems 
 (edited, with an Introduction, by William 
 Sharp) IV. — Love's Cross-Currents i v. 
 
 Symonds, John Addington, 
 
 t 1893- 
 Sketches in Italy i v. — New Italian 
 Sketches i v. 
 
 Tallentyre, S. G. : v. H. S. Merri- 
 
 man. 
 
 Tasma. 
 Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill 2 v. 
 
 Tautphoeus, Baroness, j 1893. 
 Cyrilla 2 v. — The Initials 2 v. — Quits 
 2 v. — At Odds 2 V. 
 
 Taylor, Col. Meadows, f 1876. 
 Tara ; a Mahratta Tale 3 v. 
 
 Templeton: vide Author of 
 "Horace Templeton." 
 
 Tennj'son, Alfred (Lord), y 1 892. 
 Poetical Works 8 v. — Queen jSIary 
 IV. — Harold i v. — Becket; The Cup ; 
 The Falcon i v. — Locksley Hall , sixty 
 Years after ; The Promise of May ; Tiresias 
 and other Poems i v. — A Memoir. By 
 His Son (with Portrait) 4 v. 
 
 Testament, the New: vide Nev/.
 
 26 
 
 Taiichnitz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 Thackeray, William 
 peace, f 1863. 
 
 Make- 
 
 Vanity Fair 3 v. — Pendennis 3 v. — 
 
 Aliscellanies 8 v. — Henry Esmond 2 v. 
 
 The English Humourists of the Eighteenth 
 Century i v. — TheNewcomes 4 v. —The 
 Virginians 4 v. — The Four Georges ; 
 Lovel the Widower i v. — The Adventures 
 
 of Philip 2 V. — Denis Duval i v. 
 
 Roundabout Papers 2 v. — Catherine 
 I V. — The Irish Sketch Book 2 v. — The 
 Paris Sketch Book (with Portrait) 2 v. 
 
 Thackeray, Miss (Mrs. Ritchie). 
 The Story of Elizabeth i v. —The Village 
 
 on the CliiT i v. — Old Kensington 2 v. 
 
 Bluebeard's Keys, and other Stories i v. 
 
 Five Old Friends i v. — Miss Angel i v. — 
 Out of the Worid, and other Tales i v. — 
 FulhamLawn, and other Tales i v. — From 
 
 an Island. A Story and some Essays i v. 
 
 Da Capo, and other Tales i v. — Madame 
 de Sevigne; From a Stage Box; Miss 
 Williamson's Divagations i v. — A Book 
 of Sibyls I V. — Mrs. Dymond 2 v. — 
 Chapters from some Memoirs i v. 
 
 Thomas a Kempis: v. Kempis. 
 
 Thomas, A. (Mrs. Pender Cudlip). 
 
 Denis Donne 2 v. — On Guard 2 v. 
 
 Walter Goring 2 v. — Played Out 2 v. — 
 Called to Account 2 v. — Only Herself 
 2 V. — A Narrow Escape 2 v. 
 
 Thomson, James, •)• 1748. 
 Poetical Works (with Portrait) i v. 
 
 "Thoth," Author of. 
 Thoth I v. 
 
 "Tim," Author of. 
 
 Tim I v. 
 
 Trafford, F. G.: v. Mrs. Riddell. 
 Trevelyan, Right Hon. Sir 
 George Otto. 
 
 The Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay 
 (with Portrait) 4 v. — Selections from the 
 Writings of Lord Macaulay 2 v. — The 
 American Revolution (with a Map) 2 v. 
 
 Trois-Etoiles, vide Grenville: 
 
 Murray. 
 Trollope, Anthony, f 1882. 
 
 Doctor Thorne 2 v. — The Bertrams 
 2 V. — The Warden i v. — Barchester 
 Towers2 v. — Castle Richmond 2 v. — The 
 West Indies i v. — Framley Parsonage 2 v. 
 
 — North America 3 v. — Orley Farm 3 v. 
 
 — Rachel R,iy 2 v. — The Small House 
 at Allington 3 v. — Can you forgive her? 
 
 3 V. — The Belton Estate 2 v. — Nina 
 Balatka i v. — The Last Chronicle of 
 Barset 3 v.— The Claverings 2 v. — Phineas 
 Finn 3 V. — He knew he was right 3 V. — 
 The Vicar of Bullhanipton 2 v. — Sir Harry 
 Hotspur of Humblethwaite i v. — Ralph 
 the Heir 2 v. — The Golden Lion of 
 Granpere i v. — Australia and New Zea- 
 land 3 V. — Lady Anna 2 v. — Harry 
 Heathcote of Gangoil i v. — The Way we 
 live now 4 v. — The Prime Minister 4 V.— 
 The American Senator 3 V. — South A frica 
 
 2 v. — Is He Popenjoy ? 3 v. — An Eye for 
 an Eye 1 v. —John Caldisate 3 v. — Cousin 
 Henry i v. — The Duke's Children 3 v. — 
 Dr. Wortle's School i v. — Ayala's Angel 
 
 3 ^' —The Fixed Period i v. — Marion Fay 
 2 V. — Kept in the Dark i v. — Frau Froh- 
 mann, and other Stories i v. — Alice Dug- 
 dale, and other Stories i v. — La Mere 
 Bauche, and other Stories i v. — The 
 Mistletoe Bough, and other Stories i v. — 
 An Autobiography i v. — An Old Man's 
 Love I v. 
 
 Trollope, T. Adolphus, f 1892. 
 The Garstangs of Garstang Grange 2 v. 
 — A Siren 2 v. 
 
 Trowbridge, W. R. H. 
 The Letters of Her Jlother to Elizabeth 
 
 1 y. — A Girl ol the Multiioide i v. — That 
 
 Little Marquis of Brandenburg i v. A 
 
 Dazzling Reprobate i v. 
 
 Twain, Mark (Samuel L. 
 Clemens) (Am.). 
 
 The Adventures of Tom Sawyer i v. 
 
 The Innocents Abroad ; or , The New 
 Pilgrims' Progress 2 v. —A Tramp Abroad 
 
 2 v. — "Roughing it" i v. — The In- 
 nocents at Home i v. — The Prince and 
 the Pauper 2 v. — The Stolen White 
 Elephant, etc. i v. — Life on the Mis- 
 sissippi 2 V. — Sketches (with Portrait) 
 I v. — Huckleberry Finn 2 v. — Selections 
 from American Humour i v. — A Yankee 
 
 at the Court of King Arthur 2 v. The 
 
 American Claimant i v. — The £ 1000 000 
 
 Bank-Note and other new Stories i v. 
 
 Tom Sawyer Abroad i v. — Pudd'nhead 
 Wilson I V. — Personal Recollections of 
 Joan of Arc 2 v.— Tom Sawyer, Detective, 
 and other Tales i v. — 2iIore Tramps 
 Abroad 2 v. — The Man that corruTited 
 Hadleyburg, etc. 2 v. — A Double-Bar- 
 rcllcd Detective Story, etc. i v. — The 
 $70,000 Bequest, and Other Stories i v. — 
 Christian Science i v. 
 
 "Two Cosmos, the," Author of. 
 The Two Cosmos i v.
 
 Taiichmtz Edition. Complete List. 
 
 27 
 
 Vachell, Horace Annesley. 
 
 Brothers 2 v. — The Face of Clay i r. — 
 Her Son 1 v. — The Hill i v. 
 
 "Venus and Cupid," Author of. 
 Venus and Cupid i v. 
 
 "Vfera," Author of. 
 Vfera 1 V. — The Hotel du Petit St. 
 Jean i v. — Blue Roses 2 v. — Within 
 Sound of the Sea 2 v. — The Maritime 
 Alps and their Seaboard 2 v.— Ninette i v. 
 
 Victoria R. I. 
 Leaves from the Journal of our Life in 
 the Highlands from 1848 to 1861 1 v. — 
 More Leaves, etc. from 1862 to 1882 1 v. 
 
 "Virginia," Author of. 
 Virginia i v. 
 
 Vizetelly, Ernest Alfred. 
 
 With Zola in England i v. 
 
 Walford, L. B. 
 Mr. Smith 2 v. — Pauline 2 v. — Cousins 
 2 V. — Troublesome Daughters 2 v. — 
 Leddy Marget i v. 
 
 Wallace, D. Mackenzie. 
 Russia 3 V. 
 
 Wallace, Lew. (Am.), f 1905. 
 Ben-Hur 2 v. 
 
 Warburton, Eliot, f 1852. 
 The Crescent and the Cross 2 v. — 
 Daiien 2 v. 
 
 Ward, Mrs. Humphry. 
 
 Robert Elsmere 3 V. — David Grieve 
 3V. — MissBretherton i v. — Marcella 5 v. 
 Bessie Costrell i v. — Sir George Tressady 
 2 V. — Helbeck of Bannisdale 2 v. — 
 Eleanor 2 v. — Lady Rose's Daughter 2 v. 
 — The Marriage of William Ashe 2 v. — 
 Fenwick's Career 2 v. 
 
 Warner, Susan wV/e: Wetherell. 
 
 Warren, Samuel, j 1877. 
 Diary of a late Physician 2 v. — Ten 
 Thousand a- Year 3 v. — Now and Then 
 IV. — The Lily and the Bee i v. 
 
 "Waterdale Neighbours, the," 
 Authorof: z-.Justin McCarthy. 
 
 Watts-Dunton, Theodore. 
 
 Aylwin 2 V. 
 
 Wells, H. G. 
 The Stolen Bacillus, etc. iv. — The War 
 of the Worlds 1 v.— The Invisible Man i v. 
 
 — The Time Machine, and The Island of 
 Doctor Moreau t v. — When the Sleeper 
 Wakes i v. — Tales of Space and Time i v. 
 
 — The Plattner Story, and Others i v. — 
 Love and Mr. Lewisham i v. — TheWheels 
 
 of Chance i v. — Anticipations i v. —The 
 First Men in the Moon i v. — The Sea Lady 
 
 1 v.— Mankind in the Making 2 v.— Twelve 
 Stories and a Dream 1 v. — The Food of 
 the Gods i v. — A Modern Utopia i v. — 
 Kipps 2 V. — In the Days of the Comet i v. 
 
 — The Future in America i v. 
 Westbury, Hugh. 
 
 Acte 2 V. 
 
 Wetherell, Elizabeth (Susan 
 Warner) (Am.), f 1885. 
 The wide, wide World 1 v. — Queechy 
 
 2 V. — The Hills of the Shatemuc 2v. — 
 Say and Seal 2 v. — The Old Helmet 2 v. 
 
 Weyman, Stanley J. 
 The House of the Wolf i v. —The Storj- 
 of Francis Cludde 2 v. — A Gentleman of 
 France 2 v. — The Man in Black i v. — 
 Under the Red Robe i v. — ^Sly Lady 
 Rotha 2 v. —From the Memoirs of a Minis- 
 ter of France i v. — The Red Cockade 2 v. 
 
 — Shrewsburj- 2 v. — The Castle Inn 2 v. 
 
 — Sophia 2 v. — Count Hannibal 2 v. — In 
 Kings' Byways i v. — The Long Night 2 v. 
 
 — The Abbess of Vlaye 2 v. — Starvecrow 
 Farm 2 v. — Chippinge 2 v. — Laid up in 
 Lavender i v. 
 
 Wharton, Edith (Am.). 
 The House of Mirth 2 v. 
 
 "Whim, a, and its Conse- 
 quences," Author of. 
 A Whim, and its Consequences i r. 
 
 Whitby, Beatrice. 
 The Awakening of INIary Fenwick 2 v.— 
 In the Suntime of her Youth 2 v. 
 
 White, Percy. 
 Mr. Bailey-Martin iv.-TheWestEnd2v. 
 —The New Christians i v.— Park Lane 2 v. 
 
 — The Countess and The King's Diary i v. 
 
 — The Triumph of Mrs. St. George 2 v. — 
 A Millionaire's Daughter i v. — A Pas- 
 sionate Pilgrim t v. — The System 2 v. — 
 The Patient Man i v. — Mr. John Strood 
 I V. — The Eight Guests 2 v. 
 
 White, Walter. 
 Holidays in Tyrol i v. 
 
 Whiteing, Richard. 
 The Island ; or, An Adventure of a Per- 
 son of Quality I v. — No. sJohnStreetiv. 
 -The Life of Paris i v.-TheYellow Van i v. 
 
 — Ring in the New i v. — All Moonshine 
 
 I V. 
 
 Whitman, Sidney. 
 
 Imperial Germany I v. — The Realm 
 of the Habsburgs i v. — Teuton Studies 
 I V. — Reminiscences of the King oi
 
 28 
 
 Tauchnitz Mditzon. Complete List. 
 
 Roumania, ediledby Sidney Whitman i v. 
 — Conversations with Prince Bismarck, 
 eilitcd by Sidney Whitman i v. — Life of 
 the Emperor Frederick 2 v. 
 
 "Who Breaks — Pays," Author 
 of: vide Mrs. Jenkin. 
 
 Whyte Melville, George J.: 
 vide Melville. 
 
 Wiggin, Kate Douglas (Am.). 
 Timothy's Quest i v. — A Cathedral 
 Courtship, and Penelope's English Ex- 
 periences IV. — Penelope's Irish Experi- 
 ences IV. — Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm 
 
 1 V. — The Affair at the Inn i v. (By K. D. 
 Wiggin, M. &J. Findlater, and Allan 
 McAulay.) — Rose o' the River i v. — 
 Kcw Chronicles of Rebecca i v. 
 
 Wilkins, Mary E. (Am.). 
 Pembroke i v. — Madelon i v. — Jerome 
 
 2 V. — Silence, and other Stories i v. — 
 The Love of Parson Lord, etc. i v. 
 
 Williamson, C. N. & A. M. 
 The Lightning Conductor i v. 
 
 Wills, C. J., vide F. C. Philips. 
 
 Winter, Mrs. J. S. 
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