Night came, and Florinda counted the moments as they passed, anxiously awaiting the time at which she must leave the palace to meet Carlton, according to his last directions.  The time so anxiously anticipated at length arrived, and stealing from a private entrance to the Palazzo, accompanied by a faithful female servant, who had been her attendant for years, she hurried on foot to the designated spot.  She had shrewdly avoided the employment of a vehicle, deeming it more safe and expeditious thus to make the passage to the spot on foot.

There was one of the most delicate and high-born beauties of all Tuscany wending her way through the dark and deserted streets, attended by a single female as helpless as herself.  She was doing this for the love she bore to Carlton; she was risking thus her character, and perhaps even her life, to be united to him she loved, the gallant Americano.  On she sped, now half-running, and now retiring within the deep shade of some projecting angle of the palaces that lined the route, thus to screen herself from the observation of some passer-by.

The gate was reached at the precise moment.  There stood, wrapped close in his ample cloak, with his hat slouched well over his eyes, him she took for Carlton; he stood apparently expecting her at the door of a caleche.  With a whisper of recognition, he assisted her into the vehicle, which immediately dashed off at a reckless speed on the mountain-road.  The reader need hardly be told that this was Petro, who thus cunningly executed the plan agreed upon, as we have already seen, between him and his uncle, Signor Latrezzi.  Thus we explain to the reader the tableau we have presented him at the little roadside inn on the Apennines; thus it was that Petro Giampetti, in place of Carlton, was wedded to Signora Florinda.

Fatal mistake!  Ay, fatal, indeed, was that unfortunate billet delivered by Florinda unwittingly to Petro.  It was the author of all her present misery, and the consequences to follow were, if possible, of a still more fatal character.  In that little note, Petro possessed himself of an agent which enabled him to work out his treacherous plans-a key wherewith he unlocked the purposes of Carlton, and made himself master of his secret design.  We have seen, gentle reader, to what use Petro put the information he had so treacherously obtained, and now we will show the close of this fatal drama.

While Florinda was still insensible, and surrounded by the servants of the house, under Petro’s directions, endeavoring to resuscitate her, a single horseman rode up to the door of the inn on his way down the mountain.  Dismounting, he stood by his weary steed for a moment, regarding both him and the ominous signs of the weather, then turning to the attentive hostler, he asked: 

“How far to Florence, sir?”

“A couple of leagues, signor.”

“And the gates close at ten?”

“Si, signor.”