leaving the room, paced thoughtfully in front of the inn.

At length it struck him, that it was almost time for his brother to return.

He was entering the inn, for the purpose of making some enquiries; when he saw one of the soldiers cross the road hurriedly, and go into the courtyard, where he was immediately joined by

the vetturino.

Delmé turned in to the house, and called for the landlord.

Before the latter could appear, George rushed into the room.

His hat was off-his eyes glared wildly-his long hair streamed back, wet with the dews of night. He dragged with him the body of one of the soldiers; and threw it with supernatural strength into the very centre of the room.

"Supper!" said he, "ha, ha, ha! I have brought you supper!"

The man was quite dead.

The bullet had pierced his neck and throat. The blood was yet flowing, and had dabbled the

white vest. His beard and hair were clotted with

gore.

Shocked as Sir Henry was, the truth flashed on him. He lost not a moment in beckoning to Thompson, and rushing towards the stable. The driver was still there, conversing with the soldier.

As Sir Henry approached, they evinced involuntary confusion; and the vetturino―at once unmanned-fell on his knees, and commenced a confession.

They were dragged into the inn, and the officers of justice were sent for.

Sir Henry Delmé's anxious regards were now directed to his brother.

George had taken a seat near the

corpse; and was sternly regarding it with fixed, steady, and unflinching gaze.

It is certainly very fearful to mark the dead— with pallid complexion-glazed eye-limbs fast stiffening and gouts of blood-standing from out the face, like crimson excrescences on a diseased leaf.

But it is far more fearful than even this, to look

on one, who is bound to us by the nearest and most cherished ties-with cheek yet glowingexpression's flush mantling still-and yet to doubt whether the intellect, which adorned that framethe jewel in the casket—hath not for ever left its earthly tenement.

CHAPTER VII.

THE

VETTURINI.

"Far other scene is Thrasymene now."

66

Fair Florence! at thy day's decline
When came the shade from Appennine,
And suddenly on blade and bower
The fire-flies shed the sparkling shower,
As if all heaven to earth had sent
Each star that gems the firmament;
'Twas sweet at that enchanting hour,

To bathe in fragrance of the Italian clime,
By Arno's stream."

THE brothers were detained a few days at Storta ; while the Roman police, who, to do them justice, were active on the occasion, and showed every anxiety to give the travellers as little trouble as possible-were investigating the occurrences we have described. It appeared that some suspicion

had previously attached itself to Vittore Santado, and that the eyes of the police had been on him for some time.

It now became evident, both from his own confession, and subsequent discoveries, that this man had for years trafficked in the lives and property of others;—and that the charge connected with George, was one of the least grave, that would be brought against him.

It was shown that he was an active agent, in aiding the infamous designs of that inn, on the Italian frontier, whose enormities have given rise to more than one thrilling tale of fiction, far outdone by the reality-that inn-where the traveller retired to rest-but rose not refreshed to prosecute his journey:-where-if he slumbered but once, that sleep was his last.

Until now, his career had been more than usually successful.

The crafty vetturino had had the art to glean a fair reputation even from his crimes.

More than once, had he induced a solitary traveller to leave the high road and his carriage, for