Was it a dream? Common-sense said "Yes." My bruises said "No!" But certainly the whole affair was most remarkable, and quite out of the ordinary kind of events which take place in this prosaic nineteenth century. We have done with those romantic episodes in which the heroes and heroines of Boccaccio, Le Sage and M. Dumas père take part, and in the searching light of the Press lantern, which is nowadays turned on all things and on all men, it is impossible to encounter those strange events of the middle ages. Judging from my experiences of the previous night I had been entangled in a terrible intrigue, which might have taken place under Henri Trois or Lorenzo di Medici, yet, as the past can never become the present, the whole affair was a manifest anachronism. I was inclined to think that I had been the sport of some Italian Puck, but as there are no fairies nowadays, such an idea was absurd, so the only feasible explanation of the bizarre occurrence was that I had been dreaming.

I had certainly gone to the old burial-ground and had seen the phantom of Lucrezia Borgia emerge from an old Veronese tomb, and as certainly I had followed her to the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele, but here, without doubt, reality ended and fiction began. Evidently I had sat down upon the stone bench where I was discovered by the peasants, and had there fallen asleep to undergo this extravagant adventure in a vision of the night. In sleep I had dreamed a dream after the fashion of the Athenian lovers in Shakespeare's comedy, and the antique chamber, the quaint costumes, and the phantom characters had been idle visions of the brain, which had played their several parts in this medi?val phantasmagoria.

To put entirely to one side the impossibility of living people dressing themselves in rococo costumes in order to play a fantastic comedy-tragedy in a deserted place, if I had really seen all I imagined, how did I find myself in the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele at daybreak? The visionary pursuit of the lady of the sepulchre had been a long one, and I certainly could not have walked back such a distance to the Piazza without knowing something about it. But memory ceased at my fainting at the door of the fatal chamber, and revived on my finding myself on the stone bench in the Piazza; therefore, granting that the whole adventure had actually occurred, how had I been taken from the deserted palace to the Piazza?

Idling over my midday meal at the Hotel d'Este, I thought of the extraordinary series of events in which I had taken part, and kept puzzling my brain as to whether they had really occurred or whether I had been the victim of a grotesque nightmare. I had received a letter from the Maestro Angello, saying he could not give me my usual lesson, therefore I determined to devote the whole day, which was thus at my disposal, to finding out the truth or falsehood of this mysterious adventure.

My bruises were very painful, but I doctored myself as I best could, so that without much difficulty I was able to walk. Doubtless I had received these bruises whilst pursuing the unknown from the graveyard to the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele, and thus far I was certain of the actuality of my adventure. With this idea in my head, I made up my mind to go to the old graveyard and discover, if possible, who was buried in the tomb from which the ghoul had emerged. By finding out the name I might possibly ascertain that of the lady, as there must certainly have been some connection between her and the person buried in the mysterious vault. No sooner had I thus sketched out my plan of action than I put it at once into execution, and as I found some difficulty in walking, I sent for Peppino's fiacre in order to drive to the cemetery.

Peppino was a merry little Florentine, whose services I employed for two reasons, one being that he spoke excellent Italian, so that I understood him easier than I did the general run of these Northern Italians, who usually gabble a vile patois which no Englishman can understand without constant practice, and my acquaintance with the modern Latin tongue was not sufficient to warrant my indulging in liberties with it; the other reason was that Peppino, having lived a long time in Verona, knew the town thoroughly, and would be able to tell me better than any one if such a deserted palace as I had dreamed of really existed; besides which, he was also a very amusing companion.

The fiacre duly arrived, and on going outside I found Peppino grinning like a small black monkey as he held the door open for me to enter.

"Dio!" said Peppino in a commiserating tone, seeing how I leaned on my stick, "is the Signor not well?"

"Oh, yes! quite well, Peppino, only I fell yesterday and hurt myself, so you see I have to get you to drive me to-day."

"Bene!" replied Peppino philosophically, mounting the box, "the ill of one is the good of another. To where, Signore?"

"To the cemetery near the Porto Vittoria."

"The new or the old one, Signore?"

"The old cemetery!"

Peppino cast a queer look at me over his shoulder, and, muttering something about the "mad English," drove away towards the Via Pallone. As he was on the box-seat, and the fiacre made a good deal of noise going over the rugged stone pavement, in addition to the incessant jingling of the bells, I could not question him as I desired to do, so, making up my mind to wait until I arrived at the graveyard, I leaned back in the carriage and gave myself up to my own thoughts.

Then a curious thing occurred which made me certain that the events of the previous night had actually taken place, for without the least effort of memory on my part the strange melody sung by the young man in the palace came into my head. I could not possibly have dreamed that, and I could not possibly have composed the air, so I concluded that I had really heard the song, and, having an excellent musical ear, it had impressed itself on my memory. Of course I did not recollect the words, but only the tune, and thinking it might prove useful as a link in the chain of circumstances, I hummed it over twice or thrice so as to keep it in my mind.

I therefore concluded from this piece of evidence that I had actually been to the deserted palace and witnessed that strange feast, but if so, how had I found myself at dawn in the Piazza Vittoria Emanuele? It was no use puzzling my brains any more over this mysterious affair, so the wisest plan would be to wait until I found out the name on the tomb, and then perhaps Peppino would be able to tell me about the palace, in which case, with these two facts to go on, I might hope to discover the meaning of these extraordinary events.

Meanwhile the fiacre had left the Via Pallone, crossed over the Ponte Aleardi, and was now being driven rapidly along the left bank of the Adige, past the Campo Marzo. We speedily arrived at the old burial-ground, and Peppino, stopping his horse near the gate, assisted me to alight from the carriage.

"Peppino," I said, when this was done, "tie your horse up somewhere and come with me into the cemetery."

"Diamine!" replied Peppino, crossing himself with superstitious reverence. "I like not these fields of the dead."

"It's broad daylight, you coward; besides, I wish you to tell me about the tombs."

"But why does not the Signor go to the beautiful new cemetery?" said Peppino, leading his horse to the wall and fastening him to a heavy stone; "the statues there are beautiful. This is old, very old; no one is buried here now."

"When was the last person buried, Peppino?"

"Dio! I don't know--eh, oh, yes, Signore, last year an illustrious was buried in his own vault; but he was mad. Ecco!"

"Why did he have a vault built in such an old cemetery?"

"Oh, the vault was old--as old as the Trezza. All the signori of his family had been buried there for many days."

"Since the Republic?"

"Dio! yes, and before."

"What is the name of this family?"

"I don't know, Signore, I forget!"

"Well, come along, Peppino. As you know so much about one tomb, you will probably know something about another."

"Command me, Illustrious."

I did not enter the burial-ground by the gate, as I wanted to go the same way as on the previous night, in order to be certain of finding the tomb I was in search of, so, with some little difficulty, and the help of Peppino, I managed to climb over the broken wall, and soon found myself in my old hiding-place. Peppino looked at me with considerable curiosity, as he could not conceive my object in coming to this dreary locality; but ultimately, shrugging his shoulders, he put it down to a freak on the part of a mad Englishman, and waited for me to speak.

The tomb looked scarcely less forbidding and gloomy in the daytime than it did at night, with its massive-looking architecture, and the stern-faced angel guarding the iron door. Advancing through the long grass which grew all round it, I looked every where for a name, but could find none, then tried to open the iron door, to the great dismay of Peppino.

"Signore," he said in a faltering voice, "do not let out the ghosts."

"There are no ghosts here, Peppino. They have all departed," I replied, finding the door locked.

"Dio! I'm not so sure of that, Illustrious. Many dead are in there."

"Oh, they've been dead so long that their ghosts must have grown weary of this gloomy sepulchre."

"Yes, Signore, but the ghost of the mad Count buried last year!"

"Oh!" I cried with lively curiosity, "is this the vault where he was buried?"

"Yes, Illustrious!"

"And the name, Peppino? What was his name?"

The little Italian looked perplexed, as he could not understand the interest I took in this sepulchre; still, seeing I was in earnest, he tried to think of the name, but evidently could not recall it.

"Cospetto! Signore, I have the memory of Beppo, who forgot the mother who bore him; but the name will be here, Illustrious, for certain."

"See if you can find it, Peppino," I replied, sitting down on a stone near the iron door. "I am anxious to know to whom this tomb belongs."

Peppino, being more conversant with Italian tombs than myself, went to look for the name, and in a wonderfully short space of time came back with a satisfied smile on his face.

"Signore, the tomb is that of the Morone."

"The Morone?"

"Yes, Signore, they were a great family of Verona, as great as the cursed Medici of my beautiful Florence."

"And this Count, who died last year, was their descendant?"

"Dio! Illustrious, he was the last of them. No father, no brother, no child. He was the last. Basta, basta!"

"Had he a wife?" I asked, thinking of the woman who had emerged from this tomb.

"Yes, Signore, a beautiful wife, but when he died she left Verona for Rome I heard. She is not now here."

Well, I had found out the name of the family buried in the tomb, and that the wife was the sole representative of the race, so I naturally thought she was the only person who would have been able to enter the tomb; although why she did so, unless it was to pray beside the corpse of her late husband, I could not understand. Besides, Peppino, who was one of the greatest gossips in the town, said she had left Verona, so perhaps the midnight visitor was not the Contessa Morone at all.

"Were the Count and Countess an attached couple, Peppino?"

The Italian shrugged his shoulders.

"Dio! I know not indeed," he replied carelessly; "the Signor Conte was certainly mad. I saw him at times, and he had the evil eye. Diamine! often have I made horns for that eye, Illustrious."

"And the Countess, Peppino? Have you ever seen the Countess?"

"No, Signore! The Conte let her not out. Ah! he was jealous, that madman. He was old and the Signora was young. Per Bacco! the husband was afraid of the handsome officers. Ecco!"

A mad and jealous husband, old, too, into the bargain. With such a trinity of imperfections a young and beautiful woman could hardly be much in love with him, and, a year after his death, would certainly not have taken the trouble to pray at his tomb. No! the unknown lady could not possibly have been the Contessa. Who, then was this mysterious visitant? I had now quite got over my fancy that she was a spectre, and felt profoundly curious to find out who she was, and why she had come to this ancient burial-place at midnight.

"Is there a Palazzo Morone, Peppino?"

Peppino changed colour.

"What do you know of the Palazzo Morone, Signore?"

"Oh, there is one then!"

"Yes, Illustrious! It is haunted!"

"Haunted! Nonsense!"

"Dio! Signore, I speak the truth. No one has lived there for the last two hundred years. It is shut up for the rats and the owls and the spectres of the tomb."

"What tomb--this one?"

"Ah, Signore, do not jest, I pray you, or the illustrious Signori Morone will hear us."

Peppino looked so serious that I forebore to smile at this absurdity, lest I should offend his pride and thus lose the story.

"Well, Peppino, tell me all about this haunted palace."

"Not here, Signore, I am afraid!"

"Then help me back to the carriage."

He obeyed with great alacrity, and, when I was once more in the fiacre, prepared to loosen his horse.

"No, no! Peppino," I said, smiling; "the ghosts can't hear us here, so tell me the story of the Morone."

Peppino cast a doubtful glance in the direction of the burial-ground, and then, seating himself on the step of the carriage, began his story. His Italian, as I have said before, was very good, so, making him speak slowly, I was easily able to understand the strange legend he related.

"Signore," he began, with a solemn look on his usually merry face, "the Morone were very famous in Verona four hundred years ago. Dio! they fought with the Scaligers, and afterwards with the Visconti. They were Podestas of the city before the Della Scala, and several of them were great Cardinals. One would have been his Holiness himself, but the Borgia asked him to supper and he died of their poison. About two hundred years ago Mastino Morone wedded the Donna Renata della Moneta, who was said to have been descended on the wrong side from Donna Lucrezia herself."

"You mean that this Renata was an illegitimate descendant of Lucrezia Borgia?"

"Yes, Signore. Ah! she was a devil of a woman, that Madonna Lucrezia. Ebbene! Signore. This Donna Renata wedded with Count Mastino Morone, and a pleasant life she led him, for she loved all other men but him. Cospetto! he would have strangled her, but he was afraid of her many lovers. There was a room in the Palazzo Morone, without any windows, where Donna Renata supped with those she favoured."

"And the room is there still?" I said, thinking of that mysterious chamber.

"Of a surety, Signore! It is haunted by the ghost of the Marchese Tisio!"

"Who was he?"

"Signore, he was the last lover of Donna Renata, whom she killed with the Borgia poison because he was faithless. Eh! it is true, Illustrious. She found out by her spies that the Marchese loved another, so she asked him to a last feast in her room, and when he was going she gave him a cup of wine. Dio! he drank it, the poor young man, and died. Ecco!"

"And why was he her last lover? Did she repent?"

"No, Signore! The Count Mastino was watching at the door, and when she had killed the Marchese he went in to see her."

"And killed her, I suppose?"

"Per Bacco! Signore, no one knows. She never came out of that room again. The friends of the poor Tisio found his body, but they never found Donna Renata."

"Then what became of her?"

"Cospetto! No one ever found out. Mastino married again and said nothing, but after that last feast his first wife was never seen again. Diamine! it is strange."

"It's a curious story, Peppino, but it does not explain how the palace is haunted."

"Listen, Illustrious! I will tell," said Peppino in a subdued whisper. "The spirits of the Donna Renata, of the Conte Mastino, and of the Marchese Tisio, haunt the palace, and in the Month of May, when the crime was committed, the lovers hold a feast in that secret room while the husband watches at the door. Then the Donna Renata poisons the Marchese, the husband enters, and cries of pain and terror are heard. Then the lights go out and all is still."

It was certainly very curious, for Peppino was describing the very same I had beheld--the terrible Renata, the unhappy lover, and the poisoned cup, but the Count----

"Tell me, Peppino, has any one ever beheld this feast of ghosts?"

"Dio! Signore, the people who lived in the palace were so afraid of the ghosts, that they left altogether, and no one has lived there for two hundred years."

"Yes, yes! but this spectral banquet seems all imagination--no one has seen it?"

"Yes, Signore. A holy Frate, who did not fear the devil, went one night in May and saw the feast through the door, but just as the poisoned cup was given, the ghost of the Conte dragged him away and tried to kill him."

"Oh! and did the ghost succeed?"

"No, Illustrious! The Frate made the sign of the cross and called on the Madonna, on which the ghosts all vanished with loud cries, and the Frate fainted. Next morning he found himself----"

"In the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele?"

"No, Signore; lying on the floor of the palace."

I was somewhat disappointed at this different ending to the narrative of Peppino, but it was very extraordinary that my adventure and that of the Frate should be so similar. It was broad day, I had overcome my superstitious fancies, yet the whole affair was so strange that I could not help feeling a qualm of fear, which I tried to laugh off, a proceeding which mightily offended Peppino.

"Signore, it is the truth I tell."

"Suppose I prove it, Peppino. This is the month of May, and no doubt the feast takes place every night. You will show me the palace, and I will watch at the door of the secret room."

"Dio! do not think of it, Illustrious," cried Peppino in alarm; "the Frate himself, a holy priest, was nearly killed, and you, Signore, you are a heretic."

"And, therefore, liable to be carried off by his Satanic Majesty. You are complimentary, Peppino. Nevertheless, to-morrow you must show me the palace."

"The Illustrious must excuse me."

"And watch with me for this feast of ghosts."

"Dio? the Signore jests!"

"No, indeed, Peppino! I am in sober earnest. We will go to the Palazzo Morone to-morrow; and now drive back to my hotel, as I feel very tired. Your story has been very entertaining, nevertheless."

"Ah! the Signor does not believe me?" said Peppino, getting on the box again.

"Yes, I do, Peppino; but I believe your ghostly party can be explained away."