into the unsparing hands of her foes, he—the traitor—felt for one moment sunk into depths of shame; felt for one moment the full depravity and vileness of that abyss into which thwarted ambition and covetous revenge had drawn him.
Yet if he would have repented and retracted, he could not; and would not have done so if he could. The word was spoken; he had delivered her over into the power of her adversaries, had delivered over her beautiful neck to the brand, her proud head to the cord, her wealth to the coffers of the Bourbon, her loveliness to the mercy of Rome, her life to the hell of the Dungeon. It was done; and still as he turned to the dark shadow of the Leonardo with that loathing of the light which murderers feel when every ray that touches them seems to them as though seeking out their crime, he would not have undone it if he could. For he had loved her, and now hated her with a great insatiate hate; so near these passions lie together.
"Here!" echoed Villaflor once more, while his large eyes lighted with the fire of the tiger, though that fire was subdued under the droop of his velvet lashes. "In Naples! And I not to know it?"
In that single sentence was told a terrible reckoning that waited for those of his people—of his spies
