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have given him some consolation; all our fatigues and toils are compensated by this thought. He begs us to call on Counsellor Minghini, who has the charge of the prisoners.

‘April 6.—I have not been so delighted for a long time as at this moment. We were received by Monsieur Minghini with the greatest kindness; he seemed to enter into our feelings even before we opened our lips. He told me that yesterday, on receiving my letter, Alexander cried for joy, and cast himself on his knees to thank Heaven; then, throwing himself into the counsellor's arms, could only reiterate: "They are here!-they are here!" As Minghini told us this, his own eyes filled with tears. What a kind-hearted man he is! He tells us that my brother studies twelve hours a day, and that every book he may require is allowed him; that he is perfectly calm and resigned. He says, in about a month the first stage of his trial will be terminated, and that then we shall be allowed to see him, but not before. I asked if my daughter, from her youth, might not be exempt from these restrictions, and be granted the favour of seeing her uncle; and he has promised to speak of it to the president of the commission. I have taken leave of this good man with a heart full of gratitude for his kindness.

'April 7.-M. Minghini has sent word that my daughter would be admitted to see her uncle to-morrow at eleven o'clock. Happy, happy Louise! But her youth renders her incapable of appreciating this delight.

'April 8.-The weather this morning is nearly as gloomy as my own thoughts. I took Louise to the prison, where I found M. Minghini awaiting me. "Now then, come with me," said he, taking her by the hand. Her poor little heart beat so quick, that she could not reply. I waited about half-an-hour. The dear child told us, when she returned, that she was taken into a room, into which, a few minutes after, her uncle was brought, guarded by two gendarmes. On seeing her, he sprung towards her, pressed her to his heart, and covered her with kisses and tears. She could hardly recognise him; and even he might have some difficulty to remember in her the child of nine years old, whom he left four years ago. His emotion was so great, that he could only send us a few remembrances by her; and he kept sobbing and exclaiming: "Louise! my Louise!" all the time. Poor Alexander! what will he not feel when he sees us again!'

The poor captive's own account of this interview is but an echo of that of the child; though his sorrowful persuasion that it was the last he should ever enjoy, lends a touching solemnity to his parting words.]

Minghini drew out his watch. asked. He made a sign that it was. 'Come hither, my Louise, upon my knees, nearer to me, that I may look at you well before we part.

'Is it already time to part?' I

In prison we live on recol

lections; and I wish to impress your sweet features on my memory, that I may not be without consolation in your absence. Let us not give way to weakness-let us not weep! Providence will watch

over us. Offer up prayers to God, my child, for your uncle; he has suffered much. Pray for me, dear innocent; God will hear you.' 'We must go,' said Minghini.

'Hold! give these kisses to your father and mother, and tell them I love them. Adieu! adieu!'

[Advantage was taken of this softened state of feeling for a long and final examination of the prisoner, which-in spite of alternate promises of release, and unsparing threats of the gallows, mingled with the scarce less awful prospect of life-long incarceration in a fortress, loaded with irons, and deprived of his only solace-books -failed in overcoming, though it cruelly shook the fortitude of Andrayne. Even his innocent sister, notwithstanding her high official introductions both at Milan and Vienna, and the interest taken by even royal personages in France in the success of her enterprise, was not exempted from the horrors of a personal appearance before the commission; a step which had no result, save that of annoying its object, and bitterly wounding her unhappy brother.

There being no further motive for prolonging his trial—which Salvotti boasted he had the power to do for two years longer if he chose-Andrayne was desired to draw up his defence; which, though aware of its uselessness, he at length did, in the hope that a fair statement of his case might thus meet the eyes of the emperor. When this was done, the prisoner seems to have felt relief from the thought that all danger of yielding to the temptation to sacrifice others to his own safety was at an end; and he was even supported by it under the permitted interview with his sister, which he felt to be a confirmation of his worst fears; though, for her sake, he forbore to extinguish the hope to which she yet faintly clung.

The intervening suspense, while the report of his trial was submitted to the emperor, was beguiled by being allowed a companion (whom he at first very naturally, though falsely, suspected of being a spy) in a light-hearted Brescian-a true type of the common-place gentleman of Italy-who had entered into the conspiracy with as little of thought as he did everything else; and who, except his bitter remorse at times for the sorrow he had caused a beloved mother, regretted only his daily drive and nightly opera, and the sadly trifling routine of modern Italian life.

For this comrade's deficiency, in all save good-humour, the prisoner found compensation in communications through the wall with Signor Mompiani-the prince of Italian physicians and philanthropistsalready in confinement fifteen months, solely as having attended on, and consequently being in the supposed confidence of, the grand conspirator already mentioned-Count Confalonieri.

One day he learned that the adjoining cell had received a new

inmate, who was soon able to converse with him by the ingenious device of tapping on the wall. Having attained this point, he had the satisfaction of finding, in an answer to his question, that his neighbour was no other than Confalonieri.]

On my informing him in return who I was (says Andrayne), he said: 'I know who you are, at what time you were arrested, and also how you have behaved since your imprisonment. I pity and esteem you.'

Who could express the comfort these words administered? How proud I felt to be thus favourably greeted by the man whose misfortunes and noble character had so often aroused my sympathies! I regarded this meeting as the work of Providence, confirming my presentiments that I should share his fate.

Everything around had long convinced us that our destiny approached its crisis. Confalonieri, who, confined to bed by illness, could rarely communicate with me, was the first to give assurance of this event. ‘I have just learned,' said he, knocking on the wall, 'that the sentences, signed by the emperor, will very shortly arrive. My wife and father are at Vienna. Perhaps when they return, I shall be no more. They tell me the emperor is incensed against some of us, and me for one. To the others he will shew some indulgence.'

I was about to inquire further, when his exhausted strength precluded the possibility of reply.

The next day we listened in vain, and the frequent and precipitate entrance of persons into his cell led us to apprehend the worst-in his increased illness, death, or removal. Heavily and sadly the day passed each of us in silent thought on those we loved-when a new jailer, Caldi, entered, and in answer to our inquiries regarding the good Counsellor Minghini, replied, with a heartless smile on his lips: Neither cold nor wet will hurt him now.'

How?-what do you say?'

'Gone-gone whence he will never return!'

Is he dead then?' cried I, rushing towards him.

'To be sure; dead and buried.'

We were inexpressibly shocked.

'It cannot be helped,' added Caldi: 'every one in his turn; yesterday, Counsellor Minghini, and'

To-morrow ourselves!

Influenced by the gloomy thoughts to which this intelligence gave rise, I made a first attempt to persuade my relations to depart. The fear that they might be present at my last moments left me no rest. I thought of begging of Confalonieri to inform them from me that I wished them to repair to Vienna. After two days' painful expectation, I received a faint reply to my request.

'I will do it,' he answered; 'but it is too late. The sentences will arrive perhaps to-morrow; and I have learned, through a sure

channel, that some of us will be executed. I have but a few days left, yet I would gladly exchange one of them for the pleasure of clasping you in my arms ere I ascend the scaffold.'

'I shall ascend it with you,' I replied; 'we shall share the same fate. I have long known it. The consolation which, in these terrible moments, I ask of God with most fervour is, being allowed to pass my last hours in your company.'

The sad conference was interrupted by a noise of hurried steps in the count's cell, occasioned by the placing of guards over him, called in Italy the 'guards of death,' because they only watch over the condemned. From this moment everything assumed a still more gloomy and sinister aspect. Minutes were hours in these agonising circumstances; and, in spite of my fatigue, I could not sleep. In the deathlike stillness, about two in the morning I heard some faint taps on the wall. It was Confalonieri, who, availing himself of the slumbers of his guards, summoned me once more. 'The sentences,' said he, 'have been sanctioned by the emperor. They are here; they will be executed in a few days. I shall be hanged.'

'Tell me,' I inquired, 'whether I am condemned to the same punishment as yourself?' He did not answer; but his silence spoke more than words. I therefore raised my soul to Him who is the source of true resignation and courage, and prayed for fortitude to die worthily.

The agonies, the alternations of hope and despair, now endured for some days, I need not describe; but pass on to the event which ensued.

On the night between the 20th and 21st of January, after the clock had struck twelve, when nothing interrupted the silence around us, the sound of confused voices, accompanied by hurried footsteps, reached my ears. A party entered the prison of Confalonieri. So many persons could not have come at that hour of the night for an ordinary visit. They were come, therefore, to take him to the place where the sentence was to be pronounced.

I had scarcely awoke my companion, and told him my conjecture, when our door opened, and the keeper cried: 'Signor, dress yourself, and come with me.'

After having proceeded a few steps along the corridor, I found myself opposite the door of Confalonieri, which had been left open. I cast a hasty glance to see if any one was in the cell with him, and then sprung upon the bed and embraced him warmly, saying: 'I am your friend Andrayne-we shall share the same fate!'

All this took place in less time than the relation of it occupies. 'What are you doing in this room?' asked the jailer sharply. 'Ho! you gendarmes; come and take this fellow away to his destination.' Several of them came forward with lamps in their hands, and accompanied me to the gate of the prison, where a body of infantry and a commissary of police were stationed. Get in, sir!' said he,

leading me to the carriage, which he entered, and placed himself beside me.

The night was cold and dark. We advanced slowly, escorted by the cavalry. Our carriage then proceeded with greater rapidity through the town, passing along its silent and deserted streets. 'How different an aspect,' thought I, 'will these streets in a few hours present, when thronged with a crowd assembled to witness my execution!'

The carriage stopped at a building. The door opened, and I entered a lofty and spacious hall, the appearance of which was so solemn, as to remind me of some ancient chapel; but a large fire, before which some gendarmes warmed themselves, and a couple of beds in opposite corners, led me to suppose it a kind of cell, where prisoners condemned to death were kept till their execution.

[One by one the doors of this gloomy rendezvous were opened, and admitted others of the prisoners, some of whom had acquired, in Andrayne's eyes, an unhappy interest, from having, in a moment of weakness, been induced to betray their former friend, Confalonieri, whose arrival they evidently shrunk from, and whose noble oblivion of past offences proved more trying to their better feelings than the harshest invectives. At length the noise of doors opening, and hurried footsteps, announced the approach of the half-dying hero of the tragic scene.]

It is the count!' exclaimed a commissary, rapidly entering the hall he is coming. Are the beds ready?'

These words went to my soul. My eyes were fixed on the door with an anxiety which banished every other feeling. A man in a cloak, tall, and of an imposing countenance, appeared at last, supported by two gendarmes. Scarcely had I perceived him, when I darted forwards, and pushed aside those who were assisting him to walk. It is my duty to support you,' I said, embracing him with tenderness; and I passed my arm round his waist. No time was

to be lost, for I felt him falter; and, with the help of a gendarme, I carried him senseless to a bed, which had been prepared near the chimney. Pressing round that couch of suffering, our companions in misfortune, with consternation depicted on their features, awaited the end of a paroxysm which had all the horrible appearance of an epileptic fit. By degrees the convulsions ceased; and there lay, apparently, an inanimate corpse before us. The marks of pain remained long after the spasms were exhausted: at length they also passed away, and the countenance of the poor patient resumed that calm and majestic beauty which frequently characterises the features of the pure and noble-hearted when the soul itself has fled.

The first use made of reviving animation by the heroic sufferer, was to extend his touching forgiveness to the guilty causes of his impending fate. You restore me to life!' exclaimed the Marquis Pallaviani, one of the most culpable of them; ' and I have brought you to death!'

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