The architectural ornaments—the uneven wall—the tough branches—were ample footing for the adventurous boy, who scrambled on with a rapidity which made Marie's head grow dizzy to look upon. At length he reached the angle of the wall, and it hid him from her sight. She stood at the casement still watching, but could see no more. The night wind was very chill, and she turned away: "My catching cold will not prevent my young adventurer from breaking his neck, neither will it in any way benefit Francesca." With this remark she drew her cloak more closely around her and flung herself into an armchair by the fire, to await the result.
In the mean time we will proceed to Francesca's chamber, where she was seated, sad and lonely, harassed by every painful image that fancy could conjure up—dreading the morrow, and yet impatient for its arrival. Weary as she was, she knew it was in vain to seek her pillow: people may sleep on the night before execution, but not on that before sentence is passed. No torture, though the human race are most ingenious in their devices of hate, can equal the low fever, the wearing depression of suspense. But a deeper consciousness than even that of actual evil was on the young Italian. She was weighed down by a terrible
