“Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was
in his library when a messenger came for him from
her parents. He ran breathless and pale to his

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gondola. The man was conquered in that moment
and the wild passion of the boy flamed up again.
When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a
moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the
calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is
kind in that to her noble children. Their regrets,
their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she
does not reveal to those who cause them. Every
man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man
is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood
Sulpizia with her parents.

“Death and victory were in her eyes. They
were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved
features, from which the flesh had fallen during the
long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as
marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weakness,
but not a muscle moved.

“Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the
woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it
was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind
their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Venice—
cold and still.

“`Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a tone not
to be described, but seemingly destitute of emotion—
as the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it—
`he has left me.'

“Child, I have not fathomed the human heart;

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but after a long, long silence my brother answered
only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of
sacrifice:

“`Sulpizia, will you marry me?'

“Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome,
and after a short time they were married. I was
the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia,
who were glad enough so to cover what they called
their daughter's shame. My mother would not
come, but left Venice that very day and died
abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were
not comprehended; but the old friends of the family
came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits,
which my brother scrupulously returned.

“You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of
mournful peace after the dark days of the last few
years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without
smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight.
She faded day by day. It was clear to us
that the end was not far away.

“Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying
upon a couch in the room behind us, where you
have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my
brother's chamber. All the long windows and
doors were open and we sat by her side, talking
gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand,

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but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered,
there was one bitter drop that had been spared
him.

“Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the
deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her
face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and
bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while
she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her
eyes were open and her glance was toward the
window, but her few words showed her mind to be
wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips
moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's
face and drew it toward her own with infinite
tenderness. His listening soul heard one word
only—the glimmering phantom of sound—it was
`Luigi.'

“His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's
eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her
breast. I touched my brother—he started a
moment—looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly,
senseless by the couch.”