I did not get much sleep that night after the excitements of the day, but towards the morning fell into an uneasy slumber, during which I had fragmentary dreams in which Pallanza, the Contessa, and the antique chamber were all mixed up together. One moment I was at the iron door of the tomb, and the guardian angel took the semblance of Signora Morone; the next I was kneeling beside the corpse of Pallanza, illuminated by the faint light of the candles; and I ever saw the pallid shade of Donna Renata pointing towards the watchful face of her husband, filled with ghastly meanings in the dim shadows. No wonder, after these terrific visions which blended the real and the ideal, I awoke in the grey morning light unrefreshed and haggard; so when the waiter brought me my roll and coffee I left them untouched, and, lying quietly in bed, wondered what step it was necessary to take next in solving this riddle.

Riddle do I say? No! it was a riddle no longer, save as to the visit of the Contessa to the vault of her family, for otherwise everything was clear enough. She had met Pallanza at Rome, and had fallen in love with his handsome face. The young man, flattered by the attentions of a great lady, had yielded readily enough to the charm of the situation, but, growing tired of the intrigue, had come to Verona, where Bianca awaited him, with the intention of breaking it off. With a woman of Giulietta Morone's fiery nature the sequel can easily be guessed--she had followed him hither, and having in some way forced him to come to the deserted palace, had there poisoned him out of revenge for his contemplated infidelity.

Of course, this was all theoretical, but from one thing and another I guessed that this could be the only feasible way of accounting for the whole affair. Two points, however, remained to be cleared up before the reading of the riddle could be successfully accomplished: the first being the reason of the burial-ground episode, the second the strange disappearance of the dead man's body.

In thinking over the legend related by Peppino, one thing struck me as peculiar--that Donna Renata had never been seen again after her husband entered the chamber, and I guessed from this that there was some secret oubliette or alcove in the room, with a concealed entrance in which Mastino Morone had entombed his guilty wife as a punishment for her crimes. Doubtless, from tradition or from old family papers, Madame Morone knew of this secret hiding-place, and having killed Pallanza, had put his body therein so as to destroy all evidences of her criminality. No one had seen Pallanza enter this deserted palace, so once his body was hidden in the secret alcove it would remain there for ever undiscovered, and no human being, save the Contessa herself, could ever tell what had become of him. She, for her own sake, would remain silent, and thus Guiseppe Pallanza's fate would remain a mystery for evermore.

Fortunately, however, God, who had thus permitted this evil woman to conceive and carry out her crime, had also permitted me to behold the murder, so that, secure as she no doubt felt of her safety, yet one word from me and the whole affair would be revealed. I never thought, however, of going to the Veronese police and telling them what I had seen, as in their suspicions of foreigners they would doubtless regard me as an accessory, and thus I would get myself into trouble, which I had no desire to do. I therefore determined to once more go to the fatal chamber and make a final effort to discover what had become of the body of the unfortunate Pallanza.

So far so good, but now the question arose, how much of this story was I to reveal to Bianca? I could not tell her the whole, for if the body of her lover were discovered, the poor child would suffer quite enough without the additional information of Guiseppe's infidelity; so, making a virtue of necessity, I determined upon telling her a pious lie. To do this it was necessary to leave out the Contessa Morone altogether, as the least mention of a woman's name would arose Bianca's suspicions, and for the Contessa I substituted a robber, who had decoyed Guiseppe to the deserted palace by means of a false letter, and there ended his life. Of course it was somewhat difficult to be consistent in the narrative; but I was so anxious to hide the cruel truth of Pallanza's worthlessness from Bianca that I went over the story I had invented, again and again, until I thought I had the whole pious fraud quite perfect.

Having thus arranged my plans, I arose, finished my roll and coffee, then, having dressed myself rapidly, set off at once for the Casa Angello, as it was nearly time for my lesson. All my bruises were now quite well, yet I felt very depressed and downcast, as the state of nervous excitement which I had been in for the last few days had told terribly on my system. However, having once put my hand to the plough I could not, with satisfaction to myself, turn back; and although I heartily dreaded the coming interview with Bianca, yet it was unavoidable, as the poor child was so anxious over her lost lover that it was necessary to tell my fictitious story without delay in order to set her mind at rest.

On my arrival at the Casa Angello I found no one there but Bianca, who was anxiously awaiting me. It appeared that the Maestro had taken it into his head that he would like a walk in the sunshine, and had gone out under the care of Petronella; but, as Bianca knew I was coming to take my usual lesson, and was anxious to hear if I had any news of her lover, she remained indoors to speak to me.

The "Fiorè della Casa," as old Petronella tenderly called her in the poetic language of the Italians, looked even paler than usual, and the dark shadows under her dark eyes made them appear wonderfully large and star-like. She had a bunch of delicate lilies-of-the-valley in the bosom of her white dress, and she looked as pale and blanched as the frail flowers themselves. Lying back on the green-covered sofa on which she was seated, she reminded me of a late snowflake resting on the emerald grass of early spring, which at any moment might vanish under the pale rays of the sun.

We were talking together in the room in which I generally had my lessons, and my eyes wandered from one thing to another with vague hesitation as I looked everywhere but on the face of this delicate girl to whom I had to tell such a cruel story--for, soften it as I might, the story was cruel and could not fail to affect her terribly. Every object in the apartment photographed itself on my memory with terrible distinctness, and, even after the lapse of years, by simply closing my eyes I can recall the whole scene with the utmost truthfulness. The dull red of the terra-cotta floor, the heavy time-worn furniture, covered with faded green rep, the small ebony piano with its glistening white keys alternating with the black, the mirror-fronted press in wh............