plucked it from my heart as I would have torn a thorn from my flesh—­I flung it from me with disgust as I had flung away the unseen reptile that had fastened on my neck in the vault.  The deep warm friendship of years I had felt for Guido Ferrari froze to its very foundations—­and in its place there rose up, not hate, but pitiless, immeasurable contempt.  A stern disdain of myself also awoke in me, as I remembered the unreasoning joy with which, I had hastened—­as I thought—­home, full of eager anticipation and Romeo-like ardor.  An idiot leaping merrily to his death over a mountain chasm was not more fool than I!  But the dream was over—­the delusion of my life was passed.  I was strong to avenge—­I would be swift to accomplish.  So, darkly musing for an hour or more, I decided on the course I had to pursue, and to make the decision final I drew from my breast the crucifix that the dead monk Cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, I raised it aloft, and swore by that sacred symbol never to relent, never to relax, never to rest, till I had brought my vow of just vengeance to its utmost fulfillment.  The stars, calm witnesses of my oath, eyed me earnestly from their judgment thrones in the quiet sky—­there was a brief pause in the singing of the nightingales, as though they too listened—­the wind sighed plaintively, and scattered a shower of jasmine blossoms like snow at my feet.  Even so, I thought, fall the last leaves of my white days—­ days of pleasure, days of sweet illusion, days of dear remembrance; even so let them wither and perish utterly forever!  For from henceforth my life must be something other than a mere garland of flowers—­it must be a chain of finely tempered steel, hard, cold, and unbreakable—­formed into links strong enough to wind round and round two false lives and imprison them so closely as to leave no means of escape.  This was what must be done—­and I resolved to do it.  With a firm, quiet step I turned to leave the avenue.  I opened the little private wicket, and passed into the dusty road.  A clanging noise caused me to look up as I went by the principal entrance of the Villa Romani.  A man servant—­my own man-servant by the by—­was barring the great gates for the night.  I listened as he slid the bolts into their places, and turned the key.  I remembered that those gates had been thoroughly fastened before, when I came up the road from Naples—­why then had they been opened since?  To let out a visitor?  Of course!  I smiled grimly at my wife’s cunning!  She evidently knew what she was about.  Appearances must be kept up—­the Signor Ferrari must be decorously shown out by a servant at the chief entrance of the house.  Naturally!—­all very unsuspicious—­ looking and quite in keeping with the proprieties!  Guido had just left her then?  I walked steadily, without hurrying my pace, down the hill toward the city, and on the way I overtook him.  He was strolling lazily along, smoking as usual, and he held a spray of stephanotis