If my reader has been as retentive as I could wish him, he will have borne in mind that on the evening when Major M'Caskey took a very menacing leave of Norman Maitland at Paris, Count Caffarelli had promised his friend to write to General Filangieri to obtain from the King a letter addressed to Maitland in the royal hand by the title of Count of Amalfi,—such a recognition being as valid an act of ennoblement as all the declarations and registrations and emblazonments of heralds and the colleges.

It had been originally intended that this letter should be enclosed to Count Ludolf, the Neapolitan envoy at Turin, where Maitland would have found it; but seeing the spirit which had now grown up between Maitland and M'Caskey, and foreseeing well what would occur whenever these two men should meet, Caffarelli, with that astuteness that never fails the Italian, determined to avert the peril by a stratagem which lent its aid to the object he had in hand. He begged the General would transmit the letter from the King, not to Turin, but to the Castello di Montanara, where Maitland had long resided, in a far-away part of Calabria, and employ as the messenger M'Caskey himself; by which means this very irritable and irritating individual might be, for a time at least, withdrawn from public view, and an immediate meeting with Maitland prevented.

It was not very difficult, without any breach of confidence, for Caffarelli to convey to Filangieri that his choice of M'Caskey for this mission was something stronger than a caprice, and that his real wish was that this fiery personage should not be at Naples when they arrived there.

A very brief note, which reached Caffarelli before he had left Paris, informed him that all he had requested had been duly done. “He gave it,”—it was of the King he spoke,—“he gave it at once, Carlo; only saying, with a laugh, 'One of my brothers may dispute it with him some of these days, for it gives some privilege; but whether it be to claim the rights of the Church after high treason, or to have two wives in Lower Calabria, I don't remember; but tell your friend to avoid both murder and matrimony, at least till he returns to a more civilized region.'

“I shall send the Irish Major with the despatch, as you wish. If I understand you aright, you are not over-anxious he should come back with the answer. But why not be more explicit? If you want——remember Calabria is——Calabria,—you understand.”

At first Caffarelli had intended not to show this note to Maitland; but the profound contempt which his friend exhibited for M'Caskey, proved that no sense of a debt of honor outstanding between them would lessen Maitland's satisfaction at hearing that this troublesome “cur”—so he called him—should not be yelping at his heels through the streets of Naples.

Maitland, in fact, declared that he knew of no misfortune in life so thoroughly ruinous as to be confronted in a quarrel with a questionable antagonist. From the ridicule of such a situation, he averred, the only escape was in a fatal ending; and Maitland knew nothing so bad as ridicule. Enmity in all its shapes he had faced, and could face again. Give him a foe but worthy of him, and no man ever sprang into the lists with a lighter heart; the dread of a false position was too much for him.

Leaving these two friends then at Paris, to talk, amid their lives of many dissipations, of plots and schemes and ambitions, let us betake ourselves to a very distant spot, at the extreme verge of the Continent,—a little inlet on the Calabrian coast below Reggio; where, on a small promontory separating two narrow bays, stands the lone castle of Montanara. It had been originally a convent, as its vast size indicates, but was purchased and converted into a royal residence by a former king of Naples, who spent incredible sums on the buildings and the gardens. The latter, especially, were most costly, since they were entirely artificial,—the earth having been carried from the vicinity of Naples.

The castle itself was the most incongruous mass that could be conceived, embracing the fortress, the convent, the ornate style of Venice, and the luxurious vastness of an Oriental palace, all within its walls. It may be imagined that no private fortune, however ample, could have kept in perfect order a place of such immense size, the gardens alone requiring above thirty men constantly at work, and the repairs of the sea-wall being a labor that never ended.

The present occupant, Sir Omerod Butler, lived in one small block called the “Biolo,” which projected into the sea at the very end of the promontory, and was approachable on the land side by a beautiful avenue of cedars. They were of great age, and, tradition said, had been brought from Lebanon. If ruin and neglect and desolation characterized all around, no sooner had the traveller entered this shady approach than all changed to the most perfect care and culture,—flowery shrubs of every kind, beds of gorgeous flowers, pergolati of vines leading down to the sea, and orange groves dipping their golden balls in the blue Mediterranean at every step, till the ample gate was reached; passing into which you entered a spacious court paved with variegated marble, with a massive fountain in the centre. From this court, under a pillared archway, led off all the lower rooms,—great spacious chambers, with richly painted ceilings and tessellated floors. Into these was gathered the most costly furniture of the whole palace; tables and consoles of malachite and porphyry, gorgeously inlaid slabs of lapis lazuli and agate, cabinets of rare beauty, and objects of ancient art. Passing through these again, you gained the rooms of daily habitation, arranged with all the taste and luxury of modern refinement, and distinctively marking that the cold splendor without could not attain to that sense of comfort and voluptuous ease which an age of greater indulgence requires.

The outer gate of the castle, which opened by a draw-bridge over a deep moat, on the Reggio road, was little less than a mile off; and it may give some idea of the vast size of the place to state that, from that entrance to the Molo, there was a succession of buildings of one kind or other, only interrupted by areas of courtyard or garden.

When, at the close of a sultry day, Major M'Caskey presented himself at this gate, summoning the porter with a vigorous pull of the bell, he was not admitted till a very careful scrutiny showed that he was alone, and did not, besides, exhibit anything very formidable in his appearance. He was told, as he passed in, that he must leave his horse at the stables beside the gate, and make the rest of his way on foot The Major was both tired and hungry; he had been in the saddle since daybreak, had twice missed his way, and tasted no food since he set out.

“Is there much more of this confounded way to go?” asked he of his guide, as they now mounted a terrace, only to descend again.

“About a quarter of an hour will bring you to the Molo,” said the other, just as ill-pleased to have the duty of escorting him. A quick glance at the fellow's face showed the Major how hopeless it would be to expect any information from him; and though he was burning to know who inhabited this lonesome place, and why he lived there, he forebore all questioning, and went along in silence.

“There!” said his guide, at last, as they reached a great archway standing alone in a sort of lawn,—“there! you follow that road to the little gate yonder, pass in, cross the garden, and you will be at the side entrance of the Molo. I don't suppose you want to enter by the grand gate?”

Major M'Caskey was not much in the habit of suffering an insolence to pass unresented; but he seemed to control himself as he drew forth his purse and took out a crown piece. “This is for your trouble, my worthy fellow,” said he; “go and look for it yonder;” and he jerked the piece of money over the low parapet, and sent it skimming along the sea a hundred yards off.

Though the man's lips murmured in passion, and his dark eyes flashed anger, one look at the face of his companion assured him that the safer policy was to restrain his wrath, and, touching his hat in salute, he retired without a word.

As though he felt in better temper with himself for having thus discharged this little debt, the Major stepped more briskly forward, gained the small postern, and entered a large and formal garden, the chief avenue of which showed him the gate at the extremity. It lay open, and he found himself in a large vaulted hall, from which doors led off. In doubt which course to take, he turned to seek for a bell, but there was none to be found; and after a careful search on every side, he determined to announce himself by a stout knocking at one of the doors before him.

The hollow clamor resounded through the whole building, and soon brought down two men in faded livery, half terrified, half angry at the summons.

M'Caskey, at once assuming the upper hand, a habit in which practice had made him proficient, demanded haughtily to see “the Count,” their master.

“He is at dinner,” said they both together.

“I wish I were so too,” said the Major. “Go in and tell him that I am the bearer of a royal despatch, and desire to see him immediately.”

They held counsel together in whispers for a few minutes, during which the name Maria occurred frequently between them. “We will tell the Signora Maria you are here,” said one, at last.

“And who may she be?” said M'Caskey, haughtily.

“She is the Cameriera of the Countess, and the chief of all the household.”

“My business is not with a waiting-woman. I have come to see the Count of Amalfi,” said the Major, sternly.

The men apparently knew their own duties best, and, civilly asking him to follow, they led the way up a small flight of stairs, and after traversing some scantily furnished rooms, showed him into a pretty decorated little chamber, with two windows looking on the sea.

Having politely begged him to be seated, they left him. The Major, besides being hungry and jaded, was irritable and angry. Filangieri had told him his mission was one of importance and high trust; in fact, so much so, that it could not be confided to one less known than himself. And was this the way they received a royal envoy, sent on such an errand? While he thus fumed and chafed, he heard a door open and close, and shortly after the sweep of a woman's dress coming along the corridor; and now the step came nearer, and the door opened, and a tall, sickly-looking woman entered; but scarcely had she advanced one pace within the room, when she uttered a faint scream and fainted.

The Major's first care was to turn the key in the lock; his second was to lift up the almost lifeless figure, and place her on a sofa. As he did so, any emotion that his features betrayed was rather of displeasure than astonishment; and in the impatient way he jerked open the window to let the fresh air blow on her, there was far more of anger than surprise.

“So, then, you are the Signora Maria, it would seem,” were the first words she heard as she rallied from her swoon.

“Oh, Miles!” cried she, with an intense agony, “why have you tracked me here? Could you not have let me drag out my few years of life in peace?”

It was difficult to guess how these words affected him, or, rather, in how many different ways; for though at first his eyes flashed angrily, he soon gave a short jeering sort of laugh, and, throwing himself down into a chair, he crossed his arms on his breast and gazed steadily at her.

The look seemed to remind her of bygone suffering, for she turned her head away, and then covered her face with her hands.

“Signora Maria,” said he, slowly,—“unless, indeed, you still desire I should call you Mrs. M'Caskey.”

“No, no,—Maria,” cried she, wildly; “I am but a servant—I toil for my bread; but better that than—” She stopped, and, after an effort to subdue her emotion, burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.

“It matters little to me, madam, what the name. The chain that ties us is just as irrevocable, whatever we choose to call ourselves. As to anything else, I do not suppose you intend to claim me as your husband.”

“No, no, never,” cried she, impetuously.

“Nor am I less generous, madam. None shall ever hear from me that you were my wife. The contract was one that brought little credit to either of us.”

“Nothing but misery and misfortune to me!” said she, bitterly; “nothing else,—nothing else!”

“You remind me, madam,” said he, in a slow, deliberate voice, as though he were enunciating some long-resolved sentiment,—“you remind me much of Josephine.”

“Who is Josephine?” asked she, quickly.

“I speak of the Empress Josephine, so you may perceive that I have sought your parallel in high places. She, like you, deemed herself the most unhappy of women, and all because destiny had linked her with a greatness that she could not measure.”

Though her vacant stare might have assured him either that she did not understand his words, or follow their meaning, never daunted, he went on.

“Yes, madam; and, like her husband, yours has had much to bear,—levity, frivolity, and—worse.”

“What are you here for? Why have you come after me?” cried she, wildly. “I swore to you before, and I swear it again, that I will never go back to you.”

“Whenever you reduce that pledge to writing, madam, call on me to be your security for its due performance; be it known to you, therefore, that this meeting was an unexpected happiness to me.”

She covered her face, and rocked to and fro like one in the throes of a deep suffering.

“I should be a glutton, madam, if I desired a repetition of such scenes as these; they filled eight years—eight mortal years—of a life not otherwise immemorable.”

“And what have they done for me?” cried she, roused almost to boldness by his taunting manner.

“Made you thinner, paler, a trifle more aged, perhaps,” said he, scanning her leisurely; “but always what Frenchmen would call a femme charmante.”

The mockery seemed more than she could bear, for she sprang to her feet, and, in a voice vibrating with passion, said, “Take care, Miles M'Caskey,—take care; there are men here, if they saw me insulted, would throw you over that sea-wall as soon as look at you.”

“Ring for your bravos, madam,—summon your condottieri at once,” said he, with an impudent laugh; “they 'll have some warmer work than they bargained for.”

“Oh, why not leave me in peace?—why not let me have these few years of life without more of shame and misery?” said she, throwing herself on her knees before him.

“Permit me to offer you a chair, madam,” said he, as he took her hands, and placed her on a seat; “and let me beg that we talk of something else. Who is the Count?—'The Onoratissimo e Pregiatissimo Signor Conte,'” for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from his pocket,—“'Signor Conte d'Amalfi,'—is that the name of the owner of this place?”

“No; it is the Chevalier Butler, formerly minister at Naples, lives here,—Sir Omerod Bramston Butler.”

“Ah, then, I perceive it is really meant for another person! I thought it was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives here, perhaps?” “I never heard of him.” “Who lives here besides Sir Omerod?” “My Lady,—that is, the Countess; none else.” “Who is the Countess? Countess of what, and where?” “She is a Milanese; she was a Brancaleone.” “Brancaleone, Brancaleone! there were two of them. One went to Mexico with the Duke of Sommariva,—not his wife.”

“This is the other; she is married to Sir Omerod.” “She must be Virginia Brancaleone,” said M'Caskey, trying to remember,—“the same Lord Byron used to rave about.” She nodded an assent, and he continued,—“Nini Brancaleone was a toast, I remember, with Wraxall and Trelawney, and the rest of us. She was the 'reason fair' of many a good glass of claret which Byron gave us, in those days before he became stingy.”

“You had better keep your memories to yourself in case you meet her,” said she, warningly. “Miles M'Caskey, madam, requires very little advice or admonition in a matter that touches tact or good breeding.” A sickly smile of more than half-derision curled the woman's lip, but she did not speak.

“And now let us come back to this Count of Amalfi, who is he? where is he?”

“I have told you already I do not know.”

“There was a time, madam, you would have required no second intimation that it was your duty to find out.”

“Ah, I remember those words but too well,” cried she, bitterly. “Finding out was my task for many a year.”

“Well, madam, it was an exercise that might have put a fine edge on your understanding, but, like some other advantages of your station, it slipped by you without profit. I am generous, madam, and I forbear to say more. Tell me of these people here all that you know of them, for they are my more immediate interest at present.”

“I will tell you everything, on the simple condition that you never speak to me nor of me again. Promise me but this, Miles M'Caskey, and I swear to you I will conceal nothing that I know of them.”

“You make hard terms, madam,” said he, with a mock courtesy. “It is no small privation to be denied the pleasure of your agreeable presence, but I comply.”

“And this shall be our last meeting?” asked she, with a look of imploring meaning.

“Alas, madam, if it must be!”

“Take care,” cried she, suddenly; “you once by your mockery drove me to—”

“Well, madam, your memory will perhaps record what followed. I shot the friend who took up your cause. Do you chance to know of another who would like to imitate his fortune?”

“Gracious Heaven!” cried she, in an agony, “has nothing the power to change your cruel nature; or are you to be hard-hearted and merciless to the end?”

“I am proud to say, madam, that Miles M'Caskey comes of a house whose motto is 'Semper M'Caskey'.”

A scornful curl of her lip seemed to show what respect she felt for the heraldic allusion; but she recovered herself quickly, and said, “I can stay no longer. It is the hour the Countess requires me; but I will come back to-morrow, without you would let me buy off this meeting. Yes, Miles, I am in earnest; this misery is too much for me. I have saved a little sum, and I have it by me in gold. You must be more changed than I can believe, or you will be in want of money. You shall have it all, every ducat of it, if you only pledge me your word never to molest me,—never to follow me,—never to recognize me again!”

“Madam,” said he, severely, “this menial station you have descended to must have blunted your sense of honor rudely, or you had never dared to make me such a proposal. Let me see you to-morrow, and for the last time.” And haughtily waving his hand, he motioned to her to leave; and she turned away, with her hands over her face, and quitted the room.