Thanks to the illness of the Duke of Savoy, the summer campaign of 1692 was of short duration. The allies had dispersed and retired to winter-quarters; the imperial army had retreated to Piedmont; and the officers in command of the several divisions had betaken themselves to Turin to enjoy the festivities that followed the recovery of Victor Amadeus.

Eugene had been invited with the rest; but he gave his health as an excuse for avoiding the changeable winds of Turin, and seeking the balmy atmosphere of Nice, where, having found comfortable quarters for his troops, he proposed to pass the coming winter.

Victor Amadeus made great pretence of regret at Eugene's absence; but, truth to tell, he was not sorry to escape the scrutiny of his clear-sighted cousin, who, for his part, was happy beyond expression in the devotion of his men, and the companionship of his Laura.

Here in the peaceful seclusion of the obscure little village of Nice, Eugene and Laura enjoyed unalloyed happiness. The fishermen and sailors, that formed the principal part of its population, knew nothing of the history of the grand Austrian officer that had come to live among them. In their eyes, the beautiful signora was his wife, as a matter of course; and they sunned themselves in the radiance of her beauty, without ever giving a thought to the nature of the ties that bound her to the field-marshal.

They were without an obstacle to their happiness. Eugene, sitting at a table covered with paper and charts, wrote dispatches, and planned his next campaign; while, on an ottoman at his side, Laura read or embroidered, often interrupting her occupation to gaze at his beloved countenance.

As for him, his mind was clearer, his hand was firmer, his spirit seemed to dominate every subject of its contemplation, when she was by. Oftentimes he paused in his labors to watch the delicate outline of her sweet face, and, when their eyes met and they exchanged a loving smile, he felt that there was a communion of hearts that beggared language, and would have no interpreter but a glance.

They were sitting together on the perron of their villa, which looked out upon the shores of the Mediterranean. The door leading to the drawing-room was open, exposing to view a harp from which Laura had just risen. Before them lay the boundless expanse of the ocean, blue with reflected azure from heaven; and, like some soft, weird melody to their ears, was the murmuring of the waves, that kissed the smooth, white beach before them. Elsewhere all was silent, for Nature seemed to listen—unwilling, by a sound of stirring leaf, to break the delicious stillness.

On a sudden, a wild scream was heard in the air above, and a vulture, cleaving the clouds, flew over their heads. Laura's smiling face was upturned to reply to some loving expression of Eugene's; but when the vulture's scream was heard, she rose to her feet, and with a slight shudder followed its flight until it lessened to a dim speck on the horizon.

"What has disturbed you, dearest?" asked Eugene.

"Nothing," whispered she. "And yet I am a miserable coward. Even this vulture's scream has startled me. It seems like an ill omen."

"Why, my darling, why should a vulture's scream be ominous?"

"Do not laugh at me, Eugene; but my old nurse used always to cross herself when a vulture was in sight, and if it screamed, she wept, for she said it betokened the approach of misfortune."

"Why should you share the superstition of your nurse, dearest?"

"Because I myself once heard the scream," said Laura, growing very pale. "I was standing with my nurse on a balcony of Bonaletta Castle, and she was making wreaths of pomegranate and orange from the blossoms I plucked. Meanwhile she was telling me a tale about some enchanted princess, to which I was listening with my whole heart. Suddenly I heard the cry of a vulture, the old woman dropped her flowers, clasped her hands, and cried out: 'Oh, my God! there is woe at hand! Come, child, come to the chapel, and pray the Lord to avert it,'"

"And it was averted by your dear prayers, was it not?" asked Eugene, kissing her.

"Alas, no! Not many hours afterward, I was called to my mother's room. She lay on her bed, dying,—in her hand, a crumpled letter. The letter was from Barbesieur, and its contents were her death- blow! Eugene, she never opened her eyes again!—And oh, how she loved me—that dear mother!"

"Who that knows you can help loving you?" said Eugene, tenderly.
"Look at me, my treasure—look at me, and smile. What—tears?"

"I am thinking of my mother, dear, and of her wretched life. It humiliates me to remember that she, who was a saint, suffered so many sorrows, while I, her child, who have done nothing to merit it, am too, too happy."

"Nothing to merit happiness? You, whose constancy and heroism I could not dare to imitate? Ah, Laura, remember that before I knew you, I was without hope, without trust, without love. You crossed my path, and then my soul began to soar to God; for God is love, and he that knows not love knows not what it is to adore his Creator. You are not only the architect of my happiness, beloved, but that of my religion."

Laura flung her arms around his neck, and rested her cheek against his. "And you—you are my sun—the luminary of my life! Without you, all is dark and void. Oh, Eugene! be prudent, love, and beware of your enemies; they encompass you with snares. Do not go unarmed to the barracks, for not long ago the soldiers saw a man following you after dusk. They searched him, and found on his person a poniard, and in his possession a purse of gold."

"We cannot deny that the dagger and bowl seem to be the order of the day, in this land of bravi," returned Eugene, "and I am continually warned that, dead or alive, the French are resolved to possess themselves of my body. But between intention and execution there lies a wide path, and in spite of prison and steel, I hope to tread it safely. [Footnote: Eugene's own words.—See Armath, "Life of Prince Eugene," vol. i, p. 51. ] So do not be unhappy on my account, sweet one. Let me look in those dear eyes, and there read the poem of our love—a love that death itself shall not overcome."

"No, not death itself," said Laura, repeating his words, and nestling close to his heart. He laid his hands upon her head, and blessed and kissed her.

"So would I love to die—so—resting on thy heart, and gazing into thy face," murmured she, her eyes filling with tears of joyful emotion.

"Die!" exclaimed he, shuddering. "Love cannot die. Through all eternity, its choral hymn—"

He unclasped his arms, for steps were heard along the corridor, and presently, within the frame of the open door, was seen an orderly attached to the household. Laura retreated to the parlor, while Eugene demanded the reason of an intrusion so untimely upon his privacy.

"Your highness, a courier has arrived, with dispatches from the Duke of Savoy. They are so important as to require immediate attention, and he will deliver them to no hands but your own."

"Admit him," said Eugene, entering the drawing-room, and joining Laura, who had taken a seat before her easel, and was preparing to paint. "Shall I see the courier in my cabinet, or receive him here?" said he.

"Remain here, my dearest, and let me hear the sound of your voice." So saying, she drew the hangings together, and, in the deep embrasure of the bay-window, was entirely concealed from view. Gliding back into her seat, she raised her loring eyes to the canvas whereon she was painting a portrait of her Eugene.

"I shall never, never catch the expression of those wonderful eyes," said she to herself. "This is their color, but where is their heavenly light? How shall I ever transmit—"

She started, let fall her palette, and gazed, horror-stricken, at the hangings. She had heard a voice, the tones of which, she knew not why, made the blood freeze within her veins. These were the words she heard: "Here, your highness, are my dispatches." Words without significance, but Laura shivered from head to foot. With trembling hand, she parted the hangings and looked out.

There, in the centre of the room, stood Eugene, in the act of opening a sealed paper. For one moment, her eye rested tenderly upon the beloved image; then she glanced quickly at the person who stood by the door. He wore the Sardinian uniform, and stood in a respectful posture, his eyes cast down.

But Laura? She stared at his swarthy face and bloodless lips, the sunken cheeks, and beetle brow, with a strange repugnance that almost shaped itself into some old, forgotten dislike.

"I must have seen him somewhere," thought she, "and the dim remembrance of the countenance pains me terribly. If he would but speak again! I surely would recognize that voice—that voice which sounds to my ear like some retrospective agony of which I may have dreamed long years ago."

Eugene still held the paper. He had opened it, and was turning it in and out, with an expression of great surprise. "What am I to understand by this mystification?" said he.

"Your highness," returned the courier, "the dispatches are secret, and written with sympathetic ink. If you will hold them over a light until a vapor begins to rise from them, the writing will appear."

Eugene rang and ordered a light. He stood smilingly, scrutinizing the blank pages of his letter; the courier kept his eyes on the floor, and Laura behind the hangings stood contemplating the scene, her heart throbbing as though it would burst. She saw the orderly place the wax-light upon the table, and Eugene advance and hold the dispatch above it. She turned unconsciously toward the courier. His eyes, no longer riveted on the floor, glared horribly at Eugene; and in their glance were written manifest hatred and exultation.

For one moment Laura felt as though she were stiffening to stone: then, dashing aside the curtains, she bounded to the table, crying out with all the strength of her love:

"Eugene, 'tis Strozzi!" And, tearing the poisoned paper from his hands, she flung it at the feet of the courier.

He sprang forward, and seized her in his arms. Eugene darted to her rescue, and strove with all his might to free her from Strozzi's grasp. But despair and insanity had lent him strength, and vain was all striving to unlock his hands as they clutched her slender throat, and threatened her with speedy death.

Eugene made one bound to the table, and snatched up his pistols. At the same moment, a dagger gleamed in the air. Laura fell back with a piercing cry. and Strozzi, kneeling over her prostrate body, covered her face with kisses.

The sharp report of the pistol was heard—the murderer leaped up into the air, and then dropped dead upon the floor. And close beside him lay Laura with a poniard in her breast, whose hilt of diamonds rose and fell with her quick breathing, and glistened brightly in the rays of the setting sun that gilded the terrible picture.

Instinctively Eugene would have withdrawn the murderous weapon from his darling's heart, but he felt his arm withheld, and turning beheld Doctor Franzi.

The doctor shook his head, sadly. "Do not touch it," whispered he, "or her life-blood will gush out, and she will die at once."

With a look of despair, the wretched man arose, and beckoned to the doctor to follow him to the balcony.

"The truth," gasped he, while his eyes glared as if they would have started from their sockets. "Must she die?"

"She will die instantaneously if the dagger is withdrawn. I am familiar with the thrusts of these Venetian bravi—when they aim at the heart, death follows the stroke immediately; but when they strike the breast, it ensues with a gush of blood, at the withdrawal of the weapon."

"Is there any—hope?"

The doctor knew not how to shape an answer to this heart-rending appeal. He turned away his face, and Eugene understood the mute reply.

"How long?" asked he, almost inaudibly.

"If it were any other woman, I should expect internal hemorrhage to ensue within half an hour; but the strong will of the marchioness will ward off death for the space of an hour."

Eugene stifled a groan. "O God! is there no, no help?"

"None. Science cannot prevail against the well-directed blow of a
Venetian dagger. But the marchioness will not suffer."

"No," sobbed Eugene, "for she dies; but I—I—"

"Go to her, my dear friend—go before she calls, for every exertion she makes will hasten the end."

Eugene wrung his hands. "Not yet—I cannot. I must have a moment to conquer this overwhelming anguish. Go to her yourself, doctor—tell her—I—"

But the doctor was already in the parlor, and Eugene was alone. He leaned over the balcony and stared out at the sea; the breeze had freshened, and the sound of the waves as they dashed against the shore seemed to mock at his agony. He looked above: the skies were serene and indifferent to his misery. The sun was setting in a flood of red and gold. Alas! alas! For Laura, it would rise no more!

But Eugene remembered that she had but an hour to live, and, shuddering, he overcame his weakness and approached the dying girl. She held out her hands, and smiled.

"Eugene," said she, "I long for air and light. May I be lifted out upon the balcony?"

Eugene looked at Doctor Franzi, who beckoned to the servants. They rolled a divan to the spot where the marchioness lay, and she was placed upon it, and gently removed to the balcony. She thanked them all for their kindness, and each member of her household kissed her hand, and went away weeping. No one now remained with her save Eugene and the doctor.

"Step aside for a moment, beloved," said she. "I would speak a few words with our dear friend."

He obeyed, and retired out of hearing, but not out of sight. He could not do that. They had but half an hour!

"Doctor," said Laura, "I must die, must I not?"

"All things are possible with God, but—"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Does Eugene know it?"

"Alas, he does!"

"Doctor, promise me that if in his grief he should forget to care for his own welfare, you will watch over it as I would have done, had Heaven permitted. As long as sorrow predominates over reason, you will enter his room every morning, and speak these, my dying words: 'Laura sends you her greeting, and bids you do all that you can to preserve your health, and to overcome your sorrow.' Promise me this."

"I promise," replied the doctor.

"And now, tell me. Is my enemy—is Strozzi dead?"

"The bullet went through his brain."

"May God forgive him, as I do!" murmured she. "And now, dear friend, farewell! I thank you for all my happiness on earth, and bless you with my latest breath for your kindness to Eugene and to me." [Footnote: This attempt to poison Prince Eugene is historical.]

She gave him her hand, which he kissed, and, no longer able to restrain his tears, he went back to the parlor. There on the floor lay Strozzi stark and dead, his glazed eyes staring, as if in defiance, to heaven. Doctor Franzi had the corpse removed, and threw himself wearily upon a sofa. Presently he saw Laura's Italian greyhound, with a piece of paper between its teeth, with which it seemed to be playing. He was watching its motions, as people whose minds are preoccupied with a great sorrow, are apt to watch some particular object within view, when suddenly it howled, made a leap into the air, and fell panting on the floor. The doctor stooped to examine it. It was dying.

"Why, the poor little brute has been poisoned!" said he to Conrad.

Conrad shook his head. "Impossible!" replied he. "It has been with me this whole day, and came with me hither not half an hour since."

"Stay," replied the doctor, picking up the bits of paper that lay scattered over the carpet. He took them to the light, and held them above it. In a few moments a white vapor mingled with green was seen to rise in the air, and an odor of garlic pervaded the apartment.

"Come, Conrad," exclaimed the doctor; "leave the room quickly! Happy it is for us that all these doors and windows are open, or my curiosity would have cost me my life."

"And the marchioness?" asked Conrad, sadly.

The little French clock on the mantel struck the hour. "You hear," said the doctor. "She has not a half an hour to live."

Not half an hour to live! And Eugene knew it! For above the breaking waves, above the tumultuous beating of his bleeding heart, even above the tones of her dear voice, he heard the striking of that clock.

But one half hour!—He was on his knees, her little hand locked in his, and her eyes fixed upon his face, with a look of love such as no human tongue had power to speak. But he could not bear to see her so motionless; he feared that she was about to expire.

"Speak to me, my angel; say thou lovest me," sobbed he.

"I love thee!" said she, with a joyful smile. "Ah, Eugene, I have spoken these words so often that earth and air, sky and sea, will echo them forever."

"But thou—thou goest from me!"

"God has willed it thus. But, beloved, how beautiful to me is the death that giveth life to thee! Ah, my sovereign! lord of my heart! weep not for her who dies as woman loves to die!"

"Weep not for thee! Alas! shall I have courage to bear the burden of the life thou hast purchased with thine own?"

"Yes, God will give thee strength to fulfil thy heroic destiny, my Eugene. We have been very happy on earth, and in heaven He will perfect our imperfect union. Farewell, beloved, farewell!"

"Oh, look at me once more!" cried Eugene. "Laura, Laura, speak to me! O God! it cannot be that thou must die!"

She made no answer, but her fast-closing eyes were fixed upon his. He bent closer and closer, and opened his arms, with a vain longing to fold her to his heart. But he durst not! His embrace might extinguish the feeble spark of life that glimmered yet for his momentary consolation.

But his tears fell upon her face, and awakened her failing senses. She spoke again, and the melody of her voice was like the faint notes of an AEolian harp.

"Do not weep," murmured she. "I was happy. I will be near to thee in spirit. I—"

A last sigh fluttered from her lips, and the AEolian harp was silenced forever!