"One condition more: thy lover designs to fly with his new love, to leave thee to thy fate; if I prove this to thee, and if I give thee revenge against thy rival, wilt thou fly with me?
I love thee!--I will wed thee!" Fillide's eyes flashed fire; she looked at him with unutterable disdain, and was silent.
Nicot felt he had gone too far; and with that knowledge of the evil part of our nature which his own heart and association with crime had taught him, he resolved to trust the rest to the passions of the Italian, when raised to the height to which he was prepared to lead them.
"Pardon me," he said; "my love made me too presumptuous; and yet it is only that love,--my sympathy for thee, beautiful and betrayed, that can induce me to wrong, with my revelations, one whom I have regarded as a brother.

I can depend upon thine oath to conceal all from Glyndon ?" "On my oath and my wrongs and my mountain blood!" "Enough! get thy hat and mantle, and follow me." As Fillide left the room, Nicot's eyes again rested on the gold; it was much,--much more than he had dared to hope for; and as he peered into the well and opened the drawers, he perceived a packet of letters in the well-known hand of Camille Desmoulins.

He seized--he opened the packet; his looks brightened as he glanced over a few sentences.

"This would give fifty Glyndons to the guillotine!" he muttered, and thrust the packet into his bosom.
O artist!--O haunted one!--O erring genius!--behold the two worst foes,--the False Ideal that knows no God, and the False Love that burns from the corruption of the senses, and takes no lustre from the soul!.