and protector of the young lady you speak of. This man, the father, had from the duke of that time a promise that he should have the place, for a consideration, as long as he lived, and that the duke, on resuming possession of it, should pay for the improvements. He lived there himself but a short time. Sometimes the house was closed, sometimes he sent a friend to occupy it. But the rent was always paid, even when he let Marcantonio's minister live there for nothing. He also gave the duchess the vigna, which is precious, though very small. When he died, he renewed the same bargain for his son, who never came there to live till he was an old man. Still, the rent was always paid. In fact, it has got to be considered almost as belonging to the Glenlyons, the sole reason for not selling it outright being a wish to retain nominal possession of a ruin connected with the history of the family. The Countess Coronari, who, if she had not died, would have been duchess in your place, lived with this Glenlyon, she and her daughter. Before her engagement to Marcantonio, Glenlyon made an arrangement with him for her to have a life-possession. This he did on the daughter's account. He had a high esteem for both. Of course, had the countess and Marcantonio married, the young lady's home would have been with them, and the title to the castle would have fallen. But when the countess died, and Marcantonio saw that his own death would leave the daughter homeless, he renewed this life-lease, and asked me to sign it. I did so. The conditions were that the contessina should have the castle to live in, to rent, or to leave vacant, as she should please, without interference or question, whether she were married or single, for her whole life, without paying any rent, but that at her death the place should revert to the Cagliostro estate without the payment for improvements. The conditions are just, and the engagement sacred. The contessina is away on a journey for her health and for distraction from her heavy sorrows. The servants in the castle are her servants, and have lived with her for years. All her possessions are there. All her most tender and precious associations are there. She lives here in Sassovivo in the midst of a society which knows and respects her. They would cry shame on me if I allowed her to be disturbed. I would not if I could, and I could not if I would. The contract was legally drawn up, and the papers are in her possession. I would not have her think for an instant that I regret the bargain or would consent to breaking it. My honor is concerned."
While making this explanation with the hope of touching some sense of justice or compassion in his wife's heart, the duke did not remove his eyes once from her face. It revealed to him a character which he had not even suspected in her. He had thought her trivial, egotistical, and indelicate; he saw her cruel and dishonorable. It was the first time he had ever appealed to her seriously, and the appeal was vain. There was no response in her nature when justice and honor spoke. Her downcast face grew hard and cold in every line. Her sole expression was a stubborn displeasure.
"If she can rent the place, she can rent it to us," she said sharply, when he ceased speaking.
He made no reply.
She waited a moment, then looked at him with a glance meant to be keen, but which was only suspicious.
"You are acquainted with this girl," she asserted.
He met her eyes steadily: "I saw her twice when I was here at the grand manœuvres, the autumn before I married you."
"Only twice?" she asked, with a disagreeable smile and accent.
He looked steadily at her, and remained silent.
"Your interviews were romantic, if not numerous," she pursued, in the same tone. "You saved her life, did you not?"
D'Rubiera's heart swung to and fro like a pendulum between a desire for peace and an impulse of angry disgust,
