orange bower, near Naples—in the soft moonshine—know you it—know you it well? In an agony of remorse she turned away from me, and thenceforth our bonds of love were broken asunder . . . . Nay, I have never since once beheld her any where on this wide and desolate earth. Then hastened I hither, to have my revenge on thee: and here I must sadly die. And yet now were all obstacles overcome; and the sweet saint were again mine—the partner of my ducal power and splendour—she, for whose sake I became a vile apprentice—and God knows what worse—yea, I had led her home—had her mine own in all the pride of love and splendour . . . . But now she is far away, and I am dying—dying, another and another victim of thy hateful infernal arts.”
A murmur was heard among the students, “The fever is mounting into his head;” others, however, were more doubtful, and hazarded a variety of conflicting conjectures. Master Rhenfried looked round him with a free and friendly air; he then took his cap off his fine grey head, and spoke in a clear but mild tone, “To the very respectable young students, and any other spectators who may wish to put questions on this affair, I here stake my life and honor, that professor Nordenholm is wholly innocent of causing this young man’s death.”
The murmurs became still, all moved respectfully in token of assent to the worthy old man, and they
