Chapter XI: “what Dreams May Come?”

While listening to the stories of adventures and misadventures that have been narrated here, I have been irritated, from time to time, by the tendency of the narrators to suspect that certain effects were to be attributed to supernatural causes. Eventually the absurdity of such suspicions was proved, of course, but why, in the Twentieth Century, they should find even temporary lodgment in intelligent minds I am unable to understand.

Neither on our planet nor beyond it can exist anything that properly may be regarded as supernatural. Above nature there is nothing, but in nature there is much that finite eyes may not see--that finite brains may not comprehend. We know human reason may be wrecked or restored by the sounding of a dominant, though simple, musical note, just as a great Alpine avalanche may result from the discharge of a far distant gun. Though the association of such causes and effects bewilders us, who would be so bold as to invest them with supernatural qualities?

Until a few years ago a narrative such as you are about to have from me would be assigned to the category of “ghost stories.” But Science knows better now. The scientific breeding of animals and culture of plants show that after a lapse of two or three generations there is a tendency toward what is known as “reversion to type”--that is, a sudden return to one of the distinct species that was crossed in the breeding of the original stock. Thus from the egg of an Orpington hen, of pure breed, may issue a chicken which gradually assumes the appearance of a gray pheasant. Call it “reversion to type,” if you will. In reality it is the return of an ancestor.

And in the human family the process of reincarnation is the same. A man lives and dies, and two generations of his descendants pass away, but in the third or fourth there again appears in the family line one who possesses his idiosyncrasies--temperamental and physical. And here we have the return of the human ancestor. Men may speak of such resemblances as supernatural, but science knows they are the products of nature herself.

It is in this ancestral reincarnation that we find the explanation for those idiosyncrasies which we designate as “antipathies.” From one or more of these no man is free. Among my acquaintances there is a strong man who is conscious of an inexplicable feeling of horror whenever he comes within sight of the sea. Another has told me that to him death in the cellar of a burning house would be preferable to an attempt to save his life by passing through a tunnel so small that he would be obliged to move on hands and knees a distance of only fifty feet to safety in the open air. In the first case it is probable that drowning brought a former period of existence to an end. In the second it is reasonable to assume the inherited antipathy had its origin in some form of lingering death underground--the collapse of a mine, a fall into an empty well or premature burial in a cemetery.

From my earliest youth two antipathies have produced most distressing effects upon me. Never have I been persuaded to approach the edge of a cliff. Fear and faintness invariably overcome me whenever I look from the window of a tall building to the street below. But my aversion to looking down from a lofty height is equalled by another. A strange numbness--the numbness of a nightmare--grips my faculties whenever my gaze falls, unexpectedly, upon a marble statue.

Being a man of science, I have made painstaking efforts, from time to time, to trace back to their origin certain antipathies that have come to my attention. For family reasons, which soon will be apparent to you, it was difficult to seek the origin of mine, but eventually these difficulties were removed and all was made clear to me in circumstances so extraordinary that, when I have described them, you will be inclined to regard them as incidents and delusions in the life of a madman.

Though a native of New York City, I am descended from one of the most distinguished families of Italy. For more than four centuries the house of Maranotti, rich, powerful and of ancient lineage, acknowledged no superior among the subjects of Italian sovereigns. But there came a time when its proud head was humbled to the dust, and its coronet and vast estates were forfeited to the King.

Prince Delevrente Maranotti, upon inheriting the title and estates of his ancestors, shortly after the fall of Napoleon had enabled the Italian rulers to return to their thrones, became involved in a conspiracy against his sovereign. This was discovered, and one night Basselanto, the family seat, was entered by the King’s soldiers. In the struggle which ensued Delevrente was slain in his banquet hall. His estates reverted to the King, who, a few years later, bestowed them and the title on a younger branch of our family.

Meantime, Delevrente’s only child, a son, was sent into exile. This son was my grandfather, who, upon leaving Italy, sought an asylum in France, where he married the daughter of a French army officer. Shortly after the birth of my father the little family emigrated to the United States. Like my grandfather, my father died soon after entering the prime of manhood. My mother did not long survive him, and thus, at an early age, I was left an orphan.

A few days after my mother’s death I was summoned to the office of a lawyer who informed me that it was the will of Prince Maranotti that I should be educated in a manner becoming the son of a gentleman, and that thereafter I was to look to him for aid in that direction.

The Prince was true to his word, and from that day until I attained my majority I wanted for nothing. When I came of age, however, I was requested to choose an occupation, and, shortly afterwards, when the chair of chemistry in a Western university was offered to me I promptly accepted it.

Soon after this my kind benefactor died, and his son, a young man of about my own age, succeeded to the title and estates of the Maranottis. The young Prince immediately began to manifest toward me the same generosity that had characterized his father. Several offers of financial aid were followed by a series of solicitations from the Prince inviting me to visit him at Basselanto, the last of these being of such a nature that I deemed a refusal to accept it would be an act of gross ingratitude.

To Basselanto, then, I repaired and found a welcome as cordial as ever brother extended to brother, and, as I walked arm in arm with my genial host through the palatial halls of my ancestors, much as I admired the grandeur of the place, I did not find it in my heart to envy him the possession of it. In all I saw I felt the same pride I should have felt had it been my own, for, though fortune had denied me possession of this, my father’s birthright, I still was a Maranotti and a child of the old mansion in which, for more than four centuries, my forefathers had dwelt.

The Prince conducted me from room to room, explaining to me the many objects of interest to be found in each. Together we visited the various sleeping apartments where my guide exhibited souvenirs of noted visitors who had partaken of the hospitality of our family. He showed to me the costly family jewels and the rare gold and silver plate which were contained in the secret closets, but the most interesting room of his residence he reserved to show me last.

“This room,” my host explained, “was formerly the banquet hall of the Maranottis, but my father, wishing to enlarge his library, utilized the old portrait gallery for that purpose, and had the paintings hung here. A rather rough looking lot, these earlier ones, are they not? And the old gentlemen were as rough in their deeds as in their features, for some of them were veritable brigands.”

Then, leading me from frame to frame, he commented on the pictures they contained--portraits of old noblemen and their ladies, with whose mirth this hall, now so sombre and silent, oft had echoed and re-echoed through many a long night of revelry. Now he would pause to recount to me the daring deeds of a brave and rugged warrior whose image looked down upon us from the wall. Then he would dwell upon the virtues and vices of occupants of other frames. This one slew his brother in a quarrel; that one captured a bride for himself from the master of one of the most formidable strongholds in Italy. The lady with a coronet on her brow was a Maranotti who wedded a doge.

His anecdotes interested me greatly, and I carefully noted all he said until we paused before the portrait of a young man whose features were rather more striking than those of the others.

“This,” said the Prince, “is the portrait of Miavolo di Maranotti, the son of the old gentleman there.” And he pointed to the face of a rugged-featured man with white hair, in a neighboring frame. “It is believed,” continued my host, “that this young man met his death at the hands of bandits while defending himself and a lady, with whom he was walking, from their attack. His body, which had been pierced with a sword, was found at the top of a cliff yonder, while that of his companion was picked up from the rocks below.”

“How long ago did this happen?” I asked.

“About three centuries ago. That portrait yonder is of the Countess Diametta di Gordo, the other victim of that night.”

Raising my eyes to the picture he indicated, I saw the face of a young woman of about twenty-two years of age. Her features were small and regular, and her complexion a beautiful creamy white. Her red lips, slightly parted, revealed a glimpse of her pearly teeth. The calm forehead, neither high nor low, was surmounted by hair of raven blackness, which, partly unconfined, fell upon her bare shoulders. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, and in them dwelt an expression that affected me strangely, for, stand as I would, their soft gaze seemed ever to rest upon my face as if striving to read in it the answer to some hidden problem.

The face of Diametta di Gordo was surpassingly beautiful, yet, strange as it may seem, I did not then remark that it was so, for her beauty appeared to be subordinate in interest to an indefinable expression that seemed to emanate from beneath the fringed lids of her dark eyes, suffusing her features with a glow that gave to them the appearance of a sudden awakening to life.

Stepping back a little in order to note the effect of a change of light upon the picture, I was somewhat startled to observe what I thought to be an alteration in the expression of the face, which now seemed to wear a look of recognition. Turning quickly to the Prince, I perceived him to be regarding the portrait with such apparent indifference that I was satisfied he had failed to observe anything extraordinary, so, believing I had been deceived by the uncertain light of the apartment, I attempted to laugh away my ghostly fancies.

I made some commonplace remarks about the painting and the unhappy fate of its original, then we passed on to view the remaining portraits. While thus engaged, the face of the young woman that had so affected me passed out of my thoughts, but no sooner had the Prince left me than it again occupied a place in my mind to the exclusion of all else. During the remainder of the day, wherever I found myself, whether in the grove, in the drawing-room or among the musty tomes of the old library, that face, with its strange, inexplicable expression of recognition, was ever present.

The Prince had arranged an excursion for the morrow, and as the start was to be made at seven o’clock in the morning I retired early in order to obtain a good night’s rest; but I had been in bed only a few minutes when I realized it would be impossible for me to sleep.

If I lay upon my side, I would see in the moonlight the white-robed figure of Diametta di Gordo standing near my bed, her garments swaying gently as the breezes entered the open windows. If I buried my face in the pillows, I seemed to be looking down, down, down to where a white-clothed figure lay huddled and motionless in a rock-cluster, near the margin of a lake.

Unable to free myself from these nerve-racking illusions, I rose, dressed, descended the stairs and stepped out upon the terrace. The night was clear and the light of the full moon shed a spiritual radiance over the slumbering beauty of Italian scenery.

The bell of a neighboring monastery announced the hour of midnight as I followed a path leading to the lake. I had walked only a short distance, however, when there flashed into my mind the knowledge that the path ended at the edge of a cliff. Dominated by one of the antipathies of which I have spoken, I turned sharply and moved on in another direction until I came to a rustic bench near the entrance to a formal garden. There, in the shadow of a little group of poplars, I seated myself.

I had been on the bench only a few minutes when a feeling of drowsiness began to steal over me. Thinking I now would be able to sleep, I was about to rise for the purpose of returning to my room when I was startled by the crunching of footsteps on the gravel path. A moment later the figure of a man appeared on my left and my curiosity quickly gave place to amazement. Was there a masquerade at Basselanto? If not, what meant the strange attire of this midnight stroller on the grounds?

He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age, rather above medium height. His face was swarthy and his hair and small moustache were black. But it was the fashion of his dress that excited my wonder, for it was of the style of three centuries before. His round, black cap was surmounted by a small white plume. He wore a close-fitting dark doublet, and high boots of light leather extended to his thighs. As he advanced quickly his left hand rested on the hilt of a sword.

“Ah, signor, you are in good time!”

The words, cheerily spoken, came from my right, and, looking around, I perceived another young man, attired in a costume rather similar to that which had excited my wonder only a few moments before.

“Ah, Antonio, it is you!” exclaimed the firstcomer, halting. “Yes. Ill fares the laggard at a feast.”

“Your philosophy becomes you well,” replied Antonio, laughing. “But, surely, you do not come alone. Your sister and----”

“They have preceded me,” interrupted the other.

Arm in arm, they moved on together, and a turn in the path soon hid them from my view. My curiosity was about to impel me to follow them when a hand fell heavily on one of my shoulders. Turning hastily, I looked up into the face of an elderly man who was regarding me earnestly. He, too, was clad in the extraordinary attire that now was becoming familiar to me.

“Fortune favors me, signor,” he said. “I was seeking you, and thought I might find you here.”

“Indeed!” I stammered.

“Yes. I left your father a few minutes ago. He then was inquiring of all he met if they had seen you to-night.”

“My father!” I repeated, in astonishment.

“Is it surprising that he seeks you at this hour?” the old man asked, reprovingly. “The guests are arriving and the festivities of the night are about to begin. All marvel at the absence of the son of their host. But come, come, my boy! This moping like an owl in the moonlight will lead to no good. Come with me to the hall and entertain your guests.”

I rose from my seat like one who, roused suddenly, finds a vivid dream, with its misty figures and abruptly hushed voices, slipping away from him. Faint and trembling, I tried to think, to reason. How had I come to that spot? Had I come alone? Ah, yes--all was growing clearer to me now. I had wanted to be alone--that I might think of her--of her whose face had haunted me for hours.

But how, I asked myself, had this woman, beautiful as she was, acquired such an influence over me? How could I account for the fever of excitement in my brain--for the dull, despairing sensation in my heart? Once more I seemed to look upon her smiling lips and into her questioning eyes. Then a full realization of the truth came to me like a leap of flame from sullenly smouldering embers.

I loved her.

I tried to reason with myself that such a love was impossible, for I never had even met the woman. Then, slowly, memory came to me. I had met her. It was only yesterday I had talked with her while she was gathering flowers in the garden. I had kissed her hand and had spoken to her of my love, and she had gently silenced me--as she had done, alas, many times before.

And now despair came to me. I became dizzy, and, reeling, would have fallen had not a pair of strong hands grasped me.

“What is the matter, signor? Are you ill?”

In a moment all was over.

“No,” I replied. “I am all right now. But where do you lead me?”

“To the hall of Basselanto,” my companion explained. “Do you not remember?”

“Yes, yes--to Basselanto,” I answered. “I remember now.”

The old man eyed me quizzically and retained his hold upon my arm. A few moments later the old mansion was before me. All the rooms were brilliantly illuminated, and, through the windows, I saw figures in festal attire passing to and fro.

Upon passing through a doorway I found myself in the midst of a throng of guests, most of whom greeted me familiarly, but for several moments after my entrance I was so dazed that I was incapable of utterance. I felt that everything about me I had seen before, and I no longer marvelled at the old-fashioned dress that was worn by all. I was faintly conscious of the fact that the persons by whom I was surrounded were not unknown to me, but I was unable to recall their names.

As I seated myself on a chair, an old, though still hale and hearty, man approached me.

“My son, I have been alarmed at your absence,” he said. “You should not have tarried so long. Why are you so late?”

“I fell asleep in the park,” I replied, believing this to be the best way out of my dilemma.

“An odd time and place to fall asleep,” the old gentleman muttered, suspiciously. “But it does not matter, now that you are here.”

Turning, then, to a white-haired man with a dark face, who had just entered the room, he said: “Ah, Doctor, I am glad to see you. I feared you would not come.”

The newcomer returned the greeting and seated himself near me.

The master of the house was in another part of the room, and I was viewing with increasing curiosity the strange scene around me, when a conversation which was being carried on near me arrested my attention.

“The theory is a strange one,” I heard the Doctor say, “but there are Europeans who believe it to be indisputable.”

“I must confess my ignorance of the subject,” said his companion. “Perhaps you will enlighten me.”

“Well, what knowledge I have has been obtained from the priests themselves,” the Doctor went on. “They say that, after death, the soul of man does not enter the body of a beast, as many assume who believe in the doctrine of metempsychosis, but that it takes its abode in another human body in which form it receives the punishment to be meted out for the errors of its former period of life. To illustrate this, the priests relate the case of a man who, for some offense, had been condemned to be tortured to death. As he prepared to meet his doom he suddenly became as one insane, declaring that in his executioner he recognized a slave who once had belonged to him when he was chief of a desert tribe. This slave, he said, by his command had been flayed alive for disobedience. As the criminal was well-known to have been a resident of the city since his birth, there were few who gave credence to his ravings, but these few trembled as they beheld the anguish of the dying man, for in it they believed they saw the justice of an avenging god who made the victim of the present sufferer the instrument of his wrath.”

“Do you believe all this?” asked his friend.

The Doctor smiled gravely.

“At first I was as sceptical as you probably are, but--” he began.

I heard no more. Strains of music issued from an adjoining apartment and there was a general rush in that direction. I rose uncertainly. My thoughts were confused and, striving to escape observation, I went out to the hallway and thence to a large apartment which I perceived to be unoccupied. Rich tapestries and beautiful paintings adorned the walls. The floor was strewn with the skins of the lion and the leopard and soft Oriental rugs. Marble statues of various sizes were arranged about the room, but these I scarcely noticed as I stepped toward a large mirror set in the wall.

Before this mirror I paused, and the reflection I saw there so astonished me as to render me incapable of action, for, instead of seeing my person reflected in the glass as I had expected to see it, clad in the conventional style of Paris in the Twentieth Century, I was confronted by the image of Miavolo di Maranotti, as I had seen it in the frame on the wall of the banquet hall on the preceding day.

Overcome and appalled by the metamorphosis I had undergone, I stood staring into the mirror, striving to grasp the meaning of it all, when I was startled by a laughing voice behind me.

“Signor, you are vain--so vain that you have forgotten to lead me to the dance.”

How shall I describe the sensations which overwhelmed me as, turning quickly, I beheld the speaker of these words?

Spellbound and speechless, I felt as if I were about to fall. I tried to speak--to breathe--but I could not. Then a trembling seized me--my tense muscles relaxed, and, like the rush of air to a vacuum, my spirit sought my lips, and I whispered:

“Diametta!”

Yes, it was she whose face had haunted me for hours, and now, as I contemplated the dark hair, the lustrous eyes and the form which, despite its suppleness, possessed queenly grace and dignity, I felt it was no mortal on whom I gazed, but a denizen of one of those invisible realms on which the moonbeams rest before they seek our planet. Her dress, cut low in the fashion of her time, revealed the perfect contour of her shoulders and full, round bosom. She was attired in white, and in her hair diamonds gleamed like stars in the dark field of the firmament.

“Signor!” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “Why, you start as if you had seen a ghost!”

Struck by the singular propriety of her exclamation, I continued to gaze at her speechlessly. The laughter left her face.

“Ah, you are lost in one of your gloomy reveries again,” she sighed. “Upon my word, you grow worse each day. Whoever heard of a man of your age gravely communing with Pluto while the noisy mirth of Venus was ringing in his ears?”

In stammering accents I was beginning some sort of reply when there entered the room a young man in whom I recognized the stranger who first had excited my wonder in the park. Upon seeing Diametta and myself, he advanced, and, after saluting us with a bow, he addressed himself to my companion.

“I was in search of you,” he said pleasantly, as Diametta acknowledged his salutation. Then, turning to me, he asked:

“And, Cousin, where have you been hiding? Until now my search for you has been vain!”

“He has been here,” Diametta replied. “I found him rehearsing the scene of a tragedy in front of the mirror.”

“I had just entered,” I explained, somewhat chagrined by their amusement. Then, turning toward Diametta, I continued: “But we are not too late for the dance which has just commenced. Shall we not go?”

“Pardon me while I accomplish the object that led me hither,” said the young man, bowing low. “Lady, may I crave your favor for the next?”

“You have it, signor,” replied Diametta graciously; then taking one of my arms, she accompanied me from the room.

It is idle for me to attempt to describe the sensations that dominated me while I walked on beside this beautiful woman. Vaguely, I remembered that someone had told me she had died nearly three centuries before, but I banished the memory as an idle fancy. Yielding to the gayety of her spirits, my burden of gloom grew lighter. As I mingled with the dancers, I made lively retorts to witty sallies that were addressed to me. My mind, however, seemed paralyzed by a sort of pleasurable wonder, for the words I spoke came without effort of thought. One-half of my personality seemed to be acting independently of the other half--one a wondering spectator of the performance of the other.

In a few moments I was taking, with perfect ease, the steps of a dance I never had before known. And we danced on and on--an old-world measure that was sometimes wild and free, and sometimes as stately as a minuet. And, as we danced, I thrilled to Diametta’s touch and tried to look into her eyes, but their glances evaded mine. I whispered, but she seemed not to hear me.

At length the music ceased and the dancers dispersed among the various apartments of the mansion. As I accompanied Diametta to the place where she had expressed a desire to rest, I besought her favor for another dance. She reminded me the next was promised to my cousin, Bernardo. I begged for the following one, which she granted with ill-disguised reluctance.

Scarcely had we seated ourselves when we were surrounded by half a score of persons, and soon Bernardo, appearing to claim his partner, deprived me of whatever conversation I had hoped to have with Diametta.

When I was alone I arose and stepped out upon the terrace. All the gayety I felt only a few minutes before had abandoned me. Diametta’s reluctance to dance with me again depressed and irritated me.

From the moment I had been confronted by my reflection in the mirror I had been conscious of a rapidly increasing feeling of familiarity with the persons and objects that I saw. So fully defined became this impression at last that I no longer doubted that I was the son of the old gentleman who had addressed me upon my entrance to the hall, or that the young man then with Diametta was my cousin. Diametta, however, continued to occupy the most prominent place in my thoughts, and I distinctly remembered that on several former occasions I had told her of my love and asked her to become my wife.

With quick, impatient steps I strode to and fro on the terrace. As the music recommenced, I made an angry gesture of annoyance, for was she not, even now, leaning upon the arm of my cousin, in whom I saw a dangerous rival?

Stepping to one of the windows, I looked in upon the dancers. Yes, there they were together--one of her hands clasped in his, and from that moment not a gesture nor a smile of either of them escaped me. As I watched them, I could not doubt that my fears were well-founded, for that there was a difference in the attitude which Diametta assumed with respect to Bernardo and myself was painfully apparent. While dancing with me she had been gay and lively; with him she was quiet and gentle, seemingly taking a pleasurable interest in the words which fell from lips that were very close to her face.

Unable to bear the sight, I turned away and continued to pace up and down the terrace.

In a few minutes the music ceased. I was engaged to Diametta for the next dance, but, fearing that if I entered at once to claim her I should betray my agitation, I determined to wait until I should become more calm.

At length I entered the mansion and began a search for my partner. I had passed through several rooms when I saw her walking slowly toward a door which opened on the terrace. One of her hands rested on an arm of Bernardo, and she was looking up at his face. Upon arriving at the door, Bernardo halted, and when Diametta passed out he followed her.

I waited a few moments; then, stepping quickly to the door, I looked out. They were descending the steps.

No tiger of the jungle ever stalked his prey more stealthily than I stole on after the lovers, who were walking slowly in the direction of the lake. The right arm of Bernardo now encircled the waist of his companion, and, as he whispered in her ear, his dark face almost touched her own.

Step by step I followed them, through gardens and grove, until they halted in a rustic pavilion overlooking the waters of the lake. There they seated themselves, and I crept softly forward to a place in the shadow of the structure where, unobserved, I might watch and listen.

For several moments neither of them spoke; then Diametta broke the silence.

“How beautiful it is out here to-night,” she murmured, softly.

The strains of music in the hall of Basselanto fell upon my ears, but were unheeded by the lovers. The dance had commenced, and I was forgotten.

“All the world seems beautiful to me to-night,” Bernardo said. “There is only one thing lacking to make it Paradise, and that, dear Diametta, is in your power to bestow. It is the right to hold you always in my arms as I do now. Tell me, Diametta, do you love me? Will you be my wife?”

Was it the murmur of ripples on the rocks below, or the whispers of the nightwind in the branches overhead? Or was it the soft “yes” of a woman, borne from her lips by a sigh of happiness as she plighted her troth to the man she loved?

I know not whether the question of her lover was answered by word or by silence. She was lost to me--irredeemably lost. I was overcome by the violence of two powerful passions--of baffled love for the one and inveterate hate for the other.

Rising from my place of concealment, I looked over the pavilion rail. I saw Diametta clasped in the arms of Bernardo. Her head rested on his shoulder as she submitted passively to the kisses he pressed to her face and hands. At length Bernardo, raising his eyes, saw that they were not alone. His exclamation of surprise caused Diametta to look up.

I leaped over the rail of the pavilion and stood before them.

“What brings you here?” Bernardo demanded, angrily.

“Pardon the intrusion, signor,” I replied. “I came to seek my partner for the dance. Do you not hear the music, Diametta? We are late.”

“No, no, Miavolo--no!” Diametta protested, weakly. “Not--not now. You have frightened me.”

“Come,” I directed, sternly.

“She has told you no,” Bernardo said. “Now go.”

He turned away, and, trembling with passion, I drew my sword. Grasping it in such a manner that the blade was below my hand, I swung my arm with all my strength, striking him full in the temple with the brazen hilt of the weapon. He fell, stunned and bleeding, to the ground.

Diametta sprang toward me with a little cry, and I shrank from the unutterable hate that flashed out of her dark eyes. Then, regaining my composure, I sheathed my sword, and, moving toward her, offered her my arm.

“Pardon my rudeness in your presence,” I said, “but my cousin’s command to me was rudely spoken. It grows chill out here. Let us return to the hall.”

As I moved toward her, she retreated, and so both of us passed out of the pavilion. Then, losing patience, I sprang toward her and seized one of her wrists.

“Diametta, I have several times asked you to be my wife,” I went on, in a voice that now was trembling with my passion. “You have refused. If you do not now consent to----”

“Well, then, coward?”

Releasing her wrist, I drew my sword and silently pointed it toward the pavilion where Bernardo still lay upon the floor.

With a little cry she lurched toward me and caught one of my hands in both her own.

“No, no, Miavolo!” she cried. “Kill me, if you will, but do not harm him now. In the name of the love you say you bear me, do not harm him now!”

I tried to disengage my hand from her grasp, but she held it firmly. Finally I freed myself, and turned toward the pavilion, but as I did so she laid hold of my belt. I struggled with her for several moments, then, letting fall my sword, I seized her about the waist and flung her from me.

A piercing shriek rang in my ears, and, looking to see where she had fallen, I saw I stood near the edge of the cliff--alone.

Half-blind with horror, I tottered to the brink and looked down, hoping I might see clinging to some ledge or bush the beloved form I had cast from me. On the rocks below I saw her lying white and motionless in the moonlight.

I staggered backward as I realized what I had done. Gone now from firmament and lake was all the beauty that Diametta and her lover had extolled only a few minutes before. The waters and the hills they loved so well seemed to frown dark and threateningly upon me, and the stars, glittering in sky and lake, appeared to be the shining hosts of Heaven assembled to bear witness to the enormity of my crime.

The exclamation of a man caused me to turn around, and I perceived my cousin, Bernardo, standing within a few paces of me.

“What have you done?” he demanded, hoarsely.

“I have killed her,” I answered, regarding him calmly.

He did not speak. Reeling like a drunken man, he leaned against a tree. I did not pity him, as, waiting, I contemplated his misery. The pale, blood-stained face which, only a few minutes before had been illumined by the light of noble passion failed to excite my sympathy, for in the staggering wretch before me I saw only the man who had dashed my cup of happiness to the ground and made me the murderer of the woman I loved.

But I had not long to wait. Bernardo soon recovered himself and, drawing his sword, advanced silently to meet me. I picked up my own blade from the ground and awaited his attack.

Little did I suspect that the hatred that then was forged in my heart and brain was to endure, like my love for Diametta, through coming ages--that, like Bernardo, I was to live only that I might love and hate and fight and die--to live again.

Bernardo attacked me furiously, and, assuming the defensive, I guarded cautiously, believing that in a few moments I would be able to take advantage of my opponent’s recklessness. At length, penetrating his guard, I inflicted a slight wound in his shoulder, whereupon he began to defend himself more carefully.

As we fought on, we moved further and further away from the pavilion and the edge of the cliff--a dangerous proceeding for us both, for on the ever-changing ground there were missteps to be feared, and, in such circumstances, a single misstep would mean death. And so, as we circled, advanced or retreated, there was no cessation of the death rattle made by our parrying and thrusting blades.

But the end came suddenly. I just had parried a dangerous thrust when I saw behind my antagonist a female figure, clothed in white. Was it she--Diametta? No, it was only a marble statue of the goddess Diana which--a great chill benumbed my body--my sword fell from my hand--the stars seemed to fall from the skies--my head swam--I reeled--and knew no more.

Upon opening my eyes I saw the sun had risen and that I was lying on a rustic seat in the park of Basselanto. As I rose to a sitting posture I was conscious of a feeling of numbness in my limbs. I was trying to recall the events of the night when a laughing voice fell on my ears.

“Ah, good-morning, Cousin. You have risen early, but come in and have breakfast. We will be ready to start in an hour.”

Glancing up, I saw my young host, the Prince Maranotti, standing beside me; but, as I rose to take the hand he extended toward me, I drew back trembling and aghast, for, gazing into the eyes of my generous benefactor, I saw that through them the soul of the hated Bernardo looked me in the face.

Once more the hot blood surged to my head, and I knew that the struggle in which Bernardo and Miavolo had been engaged on this spot three centuries before had not been finished. Divine justice had punished me by depriving me of my birthright, but I now lived to fight again.

From the manner in which the Prince shrank from me I knew he saw my purpose in my eyes.

“Great God, man, are you mad?” he faltered.

The words were scarcely spoken when we grappled. I thought to hear him call for aid, but he was silent as, straining every effort, each of us contested for the mastery.

We did not fight as Anglo-Saxons fight--with clenched fists--but as savages, with the joints of crooked thumbs thrust deep in throbbing, choking throats. We fought with knees and feet, and, as each used all his might, we moved toward the edge of the cliff. So near did we get to it at last that twice or thrice stones were moved by our straining, twisting feet and fell into the abyss near which we tottered. Panting, cursing, groaning and half-fainting, we maintained our struggle.

Then one of my feet slipped, and a cry of despair escaped me. My adversary, thinking as I did, that I was about to fall, drew back. By a miracle I recovered my balance and reeled toward him. Again we clinched, swung round and parted. My open hands thrust his shoulders. Weak as was the effort, it sufficed. As the Prince fell backward from the cliff, I heard him groan, then his body flashed from my view.

Three days later I was in Paris. There, seated at breakfast, I read in a newspaper an account of the death of Prince Maranotti. That he was murdered there could be no doubt, for the ground at the top of the cliff beneath which his body was found bore traces of a violent struggle.

I returned to this country on a steamer that sailed from Southampton, and since then I have been little more than a pariah. Unable to obtain employment without credentials, I was compelled to abandon the vocation of chemist and shun old friends and acquaintances, with the result that for several weeks I have been a workman in a paper-box factory.

None but a man who has felt the blighting curse of Cain can know what it means to be fleeing always from that remorseless spirit of the law which requires “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a life for a life.” And yet it is not punishment that may be administered by men that I fear. That from which I shrink is the certainty that, in the fateful cycle of eternal existence, my soul must be seared again by the baleful fire of a love that cannot die--a love for which Bernardo and I must fight, as we have fought before, near the marble statue of Diana on the cliff of Basselanto.