draught from the open door swept by. The death's head seemed to start from the marble with an awful reality;—was its meaning, half mockery half menace, addressed to her! She rushed away, and, pale and gasping, again reached the garden. She paused for an instant, and leant against the trunk of an old hawthorn, which,, placed in a southern aspect, had already a few sweet blossoms on the sunny side; their fragrance revived her, and ashamed of the childish fear to which she had yielded, when time was so precious, she hurried along the path which led to the forest. Still and dark were the glades which she had to pass, and a low moaning wind complained amid the branches: it was the great voice of Nature breathing in articulate murmurs that sorrow which is the universal soul of all existing things. And yet the air was soft and warm, and filled with that aromatic sweetness which belongs to early spring.
Francesca let her cloak fall from her head, to enjoy the pleasure of breathing the fragrance unimpeded; as the cool breeze came so refreshingly to her fevered temples. How beautiful she looked as the moon light fell around her; its pale and subduing light suiting so well with those sculptured features, and glittering in the depths of those large and radiant eyes! And yet there
