BOOK FIRST.
I.
LUCRETIA BORGIA.
Rome! A pleasant moonlight evening. The hour—nine. The scene—a splendidly-furnished apartment, in the palace of the Borgias. The only occupant of the room was an almost gloriously beautiful maiden, of seventeen summers, with hair as dark as night, and eyes as bright as the peerless diadems of her own native clime! And she—she was Lucretia Borgia!
There were no shades of evil on her face—no signs of the seal always impressed by guilt upon its followers—nor had her heart become the abode of aught that was foul and polluting. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, yet full of the gentleness of love; her face was wreathed with a quiet expression of happiness; and, as she reclined upon a luxurious lounge, and gave way to the pleasing fancies that had come in showers over her soul, there could not have been a more perfect picture of female beauty and innocence than she presented.
"O! what a pleasure it is to live,” she murmured, at length, in a voice of the most exquisite sweetness, “while—life is bright and beautiful, and love is young! It is a glorious era in life to realize that the heart, perhaps all
