obliged to observe the strictest economy to keep up the appearance which his ancestors had ever maintained. Standing thus, as it were, midway between the higher and the lower orders, Vitelli could see, with an unprejudiced eye, the oppressions of the one and the sufferings of the other. Unprejudiced, however, as he was, he did not witness them unmoved. His spirit yearned for the hour when noble daring should alone be requisite to burst the chains that held his countrymen in thraldom. He attributed not only the poverty and the sufferings of the people to the conduct of their rulers, but their immorality, their licentiousness, their very outrages, he considered as aggravated proofs of the necessity of a change in the government. Such was the man on whom the daughter of Nousiate had fixed her young and warm affections; to him had she yielded up her virgin heart, with all its first impressions of deep and passionate feeling. She knew not, she asked not, who or what he was. Chance threw them together, and the first glance at his open, manly face, attracted her favorable regard; the first sound of his voice vibrated like music on her ear; his first avowal of attachment thrilled to her heart; and the well-conned lessons of her cautious father, and the prudent resolves of her own well-organized mind, evaporated into thin air. She returned him heart for heart. But months had passed since they had plighted their faith; and Vitelli, though kind as ever, was not the same calm being she had known him. At times, whole days would pass without her seeing him; and night after night-such sweet nights as those in which they had first strayed together beneath the thick foliage of the vine, or through the love-inspiring orange groves-was she now doomed to sit alone, watching each form that flitted near her-catching and dwelling on each foot-fall as it met her ear-in the eager hope of enjoying one moment sooner the certainty that he was near. Then would she retire, disconsolate, to her chamber; consoled only with the reflection, To-morrow he will surely come.' Filippo," said she to her lover one evening, when, for a longer time than usual, he had been absent-" Filippo, how long I have tarried for you! Tell me, how is it that I am no longer 'that which I have been? Why do the scenes that used to charm me, touch my heart no more? And why do I, who once so much enjoyed the dance, the song, the ramble through the wood, or on the water's bank, why do I find them now, when you are absent, barren and desolate all?" And the fond girl reclined her head upon Filippo's bosom, and wept. "Truant," she added, "until I gave you to know how much I was your own, it was not thus with me. I had not then to weep my hours away, and wish for one who could watch whole hours to catch a glance of his own 'village queen,' as he was wont to call me. I was not then left for yonder black-faced, ruffian-looking men who lurk about our village. Filippo, how I dread and hate

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Fortunata looked in his face as she spoke. She paused-for his cheek grew pale, and his lip quivered. For a moment he seemed struggling for utterance; then, with a convulsive effort, he exclaimed: "Hate them notfear them not-curse not the saviours of our country's rights-the little remnant of Sicilia's heroes-the patriot band that spurn a foreign yoke, the gallant few that will not live in slavery! Oppressed by rulers of another

land-insulted, trampled on by servile minions of a foreign power-they dare to throw aside their allegiance, and to be free! Nay, more," he added, drawing her closer to his bosom, "curse not the sworn companions of

"Nay do not tell me so!" she shrieked "oh do not say that you are banded with a horde of desperate villains, long driven by the voice of outraged law to hide their heads in caves where the sweet light of heaven never shines :-it is not so, tell me it is not so, or strike me to the heart -for, oh! I would not live to mourn, yet love thee not.”

"Fortunata,” said Vitelli, "hear me ;" and his voice grew calm, though his eye kindled as he spoke-" hear me and judge. My course is fixed; and if the forfeit of the end I aim at be thy affection, even that must be paid, though our entwined heart-strings break together. I could see thee lifeless at my feet-but I cannot forego the glorious end in view-my country's freedom. Listen but a moment: I have long seen with pain the cruelty exercised upon the people by our rulers. Providence has placed me in a sphere where, until now, they could not immediately affect me; and it may be that but for the last blow, I should have suffered on, unresisting, if not unobserving. But heaven, as if to punish me for my apathy in their cause, has made that cause my own. I am ordered to join the expedition."

That ene

"Impossible!" cried the now terrified girl; "yet even if it were so"Hear me," interrupted Filippo. "No sooner did I receive the order than I hastened to procure an exemption. It was impossible. To gratify some secret enemy, the usual privilege was refused me. my I have discovered. It is your father's friend, the young Duke of Melazzo." "The Duke! I see it all;" replied Fortunata. She paused a moment, and added: "Filippo, I leave you. to do you service. Do nothing till I see you. row, at the usual hour. Be silent-be punctual." After a mutual embrace, the lovers parted.

Question me not. I go
Meet me here to-mor-

The eyes of love are ever watchful. The Duke of Melazzo, piqued at the indifference with which the village belle received his addresses, was not long in attributing it to the right cause; and he soon learned who was the rival who stood between him and her favor. With the meanness of a little mind, he determined to effect his ruin, and the circumstance of a fresh body of soldiers being ordered on a distant expedition, offered too fair an opportunity to be neglected. "Once rid of him," he said, "and Fortunata is mine forever!"

In the meantime the disaffected were steadily proceeding to organize themselves. Emissaries were constantly passing from one place to another, and their plans were rapidly maturing for a decisive blow; while the government, confident in its own strength, or in the divisions and the weakness of the people, neglected to take measures for the protection of their own friends who were immediately on the scene where it must have been apparent the first act of the drama was to be performed. The neglect was infamous-the consequences terrific. The great mass, the carbonari, was composed of the very lowest order of the people; but when some of the nobles, who by extravagance and riotous living had

wasted their patrimony, who, scorned and slighted by their peers, were eager for a change which might be advantageous, and could not be injurious, associated themselves with them, they were immediately joined by many of the middle classes, who, with sufficient capacity to follow in so desperate an undertaking, were both unable and unwilling to lead it. The consummation now about to take place had only been delayed by the want of proper leaders, and among these new allies they found them.

The Count Vellini in his youth had given promise of high and noble deeds. He had entered the army at an early age, and in several perilous engagements had acquitted himself with honor. Before he had attained his twenty-fifth year, he had commanded a dangerous expedition, and by his success had reaped a rich harvest of renown. But, arriving at the possession of an immense estate, and unfortunately falling into the society of the dissolute young nobles of the court, he lost all incitement to noble action; and, after having wasted his patrimony, he became worthless and restless, until the discontents of the people presented a field in which he could again display his prowess, and perhaps redeem his fallen fortunes. He was received with undisguised delight, and placed at the head of the rebellion. Every thing was now arranged. The day was named on which the effort was to be made. The rebels, with as little parade as possible, were to approach the larger cities. In Messina, in Palermo, in Syracuse, the blow was to be simultaneously struck; but in the first of these, the attack was to be the most desperate, as very much depended upon obtaining possession of a collection of arms which were there deposited. Vellini was therefore to command in person at this point, and to this body of the conspirators Vitelli had attached himself.

It was the twilight of a summer's evening when Filippo stood before a rustic altar. A lamp, fed daily by the hands of pious maidens, illumined the image of the blessed Virgin and her Son. The appointed hour had passed, but Fortunata came not. From a fit of deep abstraction, Vitelli was aroused by the approach of a boy, who thrusting a note into his hand, hastily withdrew. It contained few words :-"You have been looked for. Be ready to-night! VELLINI." The hour had arrived when the great struggle was to be made. That night was to free him from the bondage to which he had been doomed, and to liberate his country from the ignominious chains that bound her, or to make more fast her fetters and render his fate inevitable. He awaited impatiently the fulfilment of the previous night's appointment. Approaching his horse, that stood fastened at a short distance from the altar, he tightened the girths of his saddle, and spoke to him in a cheering tone, as if he would have made him understand that they were soon to perform, together, a speedy and a perilous journey. He looked towards Messina, and imagination pictured the scenes that were soon to be enacted beneath and within its walls. He thought of the shouts of the besiegers, and the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the dying-of the struggles of their friends within the city to burst the gates for their admission-of flaming tenements, and all the horrors of a civil war. Suddenly a red glare lighted up the sky above Messina. It was the signal fire. Vitelli sprang towards his horse. Loosing the rein, and bounding to the saddle, he was

in an instant dashing, at his charger's utmost speed, toward the city. In a few moments he overtook a party of the insurgents, and joining with them, they pursued their way at a more moderate pace. At almost every mile their numbers were augmented by fresh parties of the rebels, and shouts of triumph rent the air at every new accession to their strength. A few hours brought them within sight of the walls of the devoted city, from whence a light, like that of day, was shed around. Hundreds of houses were in flames, and none were found to stay the ravages of the devouring element. The gates gave way-the multitude rushed inthe fight was hand to hand. Every foot of ground was bought with human life; and blazing tenements, and tottering ruins, and falling palaces, added fresh horrors to the direful scene. The morning dawned, but still the fight went on. The arsenal was on the point of being taken, when suddenly, above the battle's roar, came floating on the wind the sound of martial music. One instant the combatants paused, and but one-for all became aware that with that blast, came marching on the hired hosts of Naples. The rebels felt that they were lost, unless they could obtain possession of arms before the arrival of the reinforcement of their foes; and the royalists, encouraged by the approach of their friends, returned to the conflict with renewed energy. They came. None fled, and few survived. The royal troops were in possession of the town: the havoc of the fight was over.

When Fortunata parted from her lover, with the promise of returning the succeeding evening, she had—with that decision of which the most feminine minds are sometimes capable, in moments of emergency-determined on the course she should pursue. She was not insensible to the difficulties-it might be dangers-that beset her path, in the performance of her duty; yet woman's all-absorbing love-the double perils that threatened Filippo-and, perhaps, a consciousness of the power she possessed even over the proud Duke of Melazzo, gave her courage to put her plans in immediate execution.

He who could have seen into Melazzo's bosom, on the morning preceding the eventful night which we have endeavored to describe, would not have found his emotions those of unmixed pleasure; for, although he did not, for a moment, doubt that he had effectually and forever rid himself of his rival, and notwithstanding he looked forward to the speedy consummation of his designs upon Fortunata, yet he could not but despise himself for the means to which he had resorted to obtain possession of a peasant's daughter, and to triumph over one whom he considered so very far beneath him. But he did not for a moment hesitate. His bitter hatred of Vitelli was increased by the mortification he occasioned to his self-love, and he exulted as he thought of the period when the lovers should be separated forever. As he paced his apartment, he exclaimed in a voice in which passion, hate, and a fiendish exultation were blended -"Yes! they shall be parted, though the pang of separation break her heart."

As he spoke, an attendant approached him: "My Lord," said he, "a young girl asks admittance." "Let her come in," replied the Duke,

"it must be Fortunata," he added as the man retired; "she comes to intercede for him. Well, let her come!"

As Fortunata entered, the countenance of the Duke underwent an entire change. His brow grew clear-his lips relaxed into a smile-and as he extended his hand to his fair visitor, he looked the picture of devoted tenderness; and his voice came like music on her ear, for it seemed to assure her that she must succeed.

"Beautiful Fortunata," he interrupted, while she implored him to exert his influence to avert the destiny that threatened her lover-“ you ask that which it is impossible for me to grant. I have no influence; and if I had, would it be natural for me to interfere to prevent the removal of the greatest obstacle to the attainment of my heart's first wish?” "Save then, Vitelli!" replied Fortunata; "save him, and prove yourself the generous being that your noble blood, your high-born ancestry bespeak you: do but say Filippo shall be saved,' and never yet did woman worship man as I will worship you; save him, my lord," she added, seizing his hand; "and be the blessings of a virgin heart and the smiles of a bounteous heaven upon you."

“Divine enthusiast," said the Duke; "the smiles and frowns of heaven can neither tempt nor awe me. With you, I could defy its wrath, and ask no other joy than your embrace. You promise me the blessings of your heart-give me that heart itself. Then, with Vitelli, be it as you will." "You can then save him!" cried the excited girl; "you will—I read it in that pitying eye-that yielding brow. Oh let me fly to bear

"Stay, Fortunata," said Melazzo," your wish is granted: Vitelli shall be saved. You demand it, and hard as is the task, it shall be performed. Yet, before we part for the last time-for never will I live to see the only being I ever prized, another's bride-give me, to dwell on when in distant climes to muse upon by day, to dream by night-one first and last embrace."

Fortunata but slightly resisted, as the Duke drew her towards him. He encircled her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers in a deep, passionate kiss. Had he formed a thousand virtuous resolutions, that instant had undone them all. He gazed for a few moments on her retiring form; and as a fiend-like gloom overspread his face, he muttered, in a deep suppressed voice, "By heaven, he dies!"

Short as had been the conversation we have narrated, so much time had elapsed in the interview, that the fond girl saw with regret the sun decline and set, long before she arrived at Rametta. Still she toiled on, untiringly for she bore the joyful intelligence of freedom to her lover. Alas, it came too late! Before she reached the appointed rendezvous, events had occurred that rendered all her efforts unavailing. Of these events and their results we have already spoken. Vitelli was a prisoner.

"Yes, Fortunata," said the Duke-for she was again before him—“ I hate your minion-I hate the slave who has dared to cross my path and retard my hopes. And shall I spare him now-save him, and give him