rather I were lost to thee, rather I were in the grave with my kinsmen, than know I lived the reproach of my order, the recreant of my name.  Ah! why was I a Colonna? why did Fortune make me noble, and nature and circumstance attach me to the people?  I am barred alike from love and from revenge; all my revenge falls upon thee and me.  Adored! we are perhaps separated for ever; but, by all the happiness I have known by thy side—­by all the rapture of which I dreamed—­by that delicious hour which first gave thee to my gaze, when I watched the soft soul returning to thine eyes and lip—­by thy first blushing confession of love—­by our first kiss—­by our last farewell—­I swear to be faithful to thee to the last.  None other shall ever chase thine image from my heart.  And now, when Hope seems over, Faith becomes doubly sacred; and thou, my beautiful, wilt thou not remember me? wilt thou not feel as if we were the betrothed of Heaven?  In the legends of the North we are told of the knight who, returning from the Holy Land, found his mistress (believing his death) the bride of Heaven, and he built a hermitage by the convent where she dwelt; and, though they never saw each other more, their souls were faithful unto death.  Even so, Irene, be we to each other—­dead to all else—­betrothed in memory—­to be wedded above!  And yet, yet ere I close, one hope dawns upon me.  Thy brother’s career, bright and lofty, may be but as a falling star; should darkness swallow it, should his power cease, should his throne be broken, and Rome know no more her Tribune; shouldst thou no longer have a brother in the judge and destroyer of my house; shouldst thou be stricken from pomp and state; shouldst thou be friendless, kindredless, alone—­then, without a stain on mine honour, without the shame and odium of receiving power and happiness from hands yet red with the blood of my race, I may claim thee as my own.  Honour ceases to command when thou ceasest to be great.  I dare not too fondly indulge this dream, perchance it is a sin in both.  But it must be whispered, that thou mayest know all thy Adrian, all his weakness and his strength.  My own loved, my ever loved, loved more fondly now when loved despairingly, farewell!  May angels heal thy sorrow, and guard me from sin, that hereafter at least we may meet again!”

“He loves me—­he loves me still!” said the maiden, weeping at last; “and I am blest once more!”

With that letter pressed to her heart she recovered outwardly from the depth of her affliction; she met her brother with a smile, and Nina with embraces; and if still she pined and sorrowed, it was in that “concealment” which is the “worm i’ the bud.”