_Euthanasia returns.--Beatrice meets the witch,
and encounters Castruccio and Tripalda.--Dies._
On the third night she returned to the witch. "You need not speak," said
Mandragola, "I know your thoughts; you hardly believe my words, yet you
are determined to make the trial. It is well; I should be surer of
success, if you had implicit faith in my powers and your own; but it is
enough. What do you wish to effect?"
"First, mother, I must know what I can do."
"Your power is almost illimitable; but that of which I spoke, and that
power which you prize most, is the power which you possess over the
prince of Lucca. Do you wish to see him? Do you wish in solitude, with
none but me near, to see him come, to hear him renew his antient vows?"
"He never made vows to me," cried Beatrice angrily; "he was bound to me,
I thought, by stronger ties than mortal oaths; that is past for ever;
but, except the salvation of my soul, I would sacrifice every thing to
see him once again, divested of the ceremonial of power, listening to
what will never be told, consoling her who can never be consoled."
"That is easy work," said the witch, with alacrity; "but first swear,
swear by all that you hold sacred in the world, by your life, by his,
that you will never disclose this conversation, or what I shall now
reveal to you, or hint in any manner the work we shall undertake."
Beatrice shivered; she could no longer stand, she sunk to the ground:
the witch went into the hut, and brought her a bowl of water; Beatrice
put it to her lips; then suddenly withdrawing it, she cried,--"You have
given me a poisonous drug, either to kill me, or undermine my
understanding;--dare you thus trifle with me?"
The witch took the bowl from her hand, and drank the liquid it
contained: "Take shame for your mistrust," she said; "this was pure
water from the spring; and, except that the charmed moon-beams sleep on
it, even when you see not the moon in the sky, it does not differ from
the waters of any other fountain. Now speak; do you swear secrecy?"
Again the prophetess paused. But curiosity and hope hurried her beyond
discretion; and with folded hands placed between the dry and skinny
palms of the witch, she pronounced the vow that was dictated.
Mandragola then said: "This satisfies me. The moon is now on the wane:
when she fills again, I will send Bindo to inform you what is to be
done. Fear not, but that all will be well."
Beatrice returned to Lucca. Her glazed eyes and pale cheeks told that
the spirit which animated her now found nor rest nor hope. She dreaded
to look forward to the fearful trial she was about to make; and yet she
could think of nothing else. Her rosary was thrown aside; her prayers
were forgotten; and love again reassumed his throne in her heart. Her
reason was disturbed by doubt and fear; and she often sat whole hours,
her eye fixed upon the earth, her parted lips pale, her hands closed
with convulsive strength, as she tried to reason herself into disbelief
concerning the promises and assertions of Mandragola. It was too much
for her weak frame; if the witch had been near her to mark the wasting
of her faculties, she might have wound her plot so as to inspire her
with some courage: but no one was near except Bindo; and he by his
tales, and his own fears and belief, only increased the combat of
feelings to which the prophetess was a prey.
Euthanasia returned from Florence. She was much disappointed, much
grieved, to find her friend far worse both in body and mind, than when
she left her. More than all wildness of words and manner, she feared her
silence and reserve, so very unlike her latest disposition. If the
convent, or her future plans were named, she listened calmly, but did
not reply; no intreaties could persuade her to give words to that which
preyed upon her mind. She would weep; and then, flying from the
affectionate reproaches of her protectress, she would shut herself up to
grieve alone, or far more dangerously to dream of the return of love and
joy. Euthanasia reasoned, persuaded, intreated, but vainly: accustomed
to the caprices of this unfortunate girl, she saw nothing in what now
occurred, that appeared to arise from any external impulse; and she
hoped that indulgence and kindness would in time restore her to her
former calm. She reproached herself for having left her; and she
resolved that, unless indeed Beatrice took the veil, which now seemed
doubtful, she would never again separate herself from her. She loved her
tenderly, and pitied her so truly, that she was willing to sacrifice all
her own hopes of future peace to soothe and restore her to some degree
of happiness.
Her endeavours were useless. The melancholy of poor Beatrice was
undissipated by the slightest gleam of tranquillity: for five days she
had not spoken, and had hardly touched any food. Euthanasia tried in
vain to console her, and, hopeless of good, sought to excite any passion
that might rouse her from her mute reveries; she spoke not, but wandered
restlessly from room to room, or among the wild paths of the garden; and
thence she would have escaped into the open country, but that her weak
limbs sunk beneath her. One night Euthanasia slept, when Beatrice
suddenly entered the room; and, twining herself round her neck, and
wrapping the long and thick hair of her friend around her brows----
"Save me!" she cried, "save me from madness, which, as a fiend, pursues
and haunts me. I endeavour to fly him; but still he hovers near: is
there no escape? Oh! if God be good, surely he will redeem my soul from
this curse. I would fain preserve my reason; my lips are bloodless, and
my hair quite grey; I am a skeleton without flesh or form; I am to what
lives, like the waning moon at noonday, which floats up as a vapour, and
the blue air seems to penetrate its pale and sickly form. Happiness,
beauty, love have passed away; but I would fain preserve that without
which I am as a poor hunted beast, whose sole repose is on the spear of
the huntsman. Breathe on me, Euthanasia, breathe on my hands, my eyes;
perhaps some portion of calm may flow from your bosom to mine. I only
wish not to be mad; yet, if what is said be true, these wonderful things
may be, and I still sane. There, there, your hand is cool; press my
head. I know you well; you are Euthanasia; I am Beatrice; I may still be
preserved from madness."
Euthanasia wept; she folded Beatrice in her arms; she placed her cool
hand on her brow, and her pale cheek close to the flushed one of the
poor sick girl. Beatrice rested a few moments in silence; and then again
she spoke. "It has been said, that I am a witch, one who has power over
the elements, and still more over the mind of man. I do not believe
this: once, I know, a very long time ago, I fancied myself a prophetess;
but I awoke from that dream many years since. Why then do they madden me
with these insinuations? I will tell you, Euthanasia (sweet name, dear,
much-loved friend), that sometimes I fancy this is true.--Oh! that I
could tell the heavy secret that weighs upon my soul! I have sworn--they
did not well, that made me swear:--yet there is some truth in what they
say, doubtless there is some truth, and it shall be _proved_. Well,
well; I have sworn, and I will not tell--Good night, dearest; I shall
sleep now; so not a word more; I have reasoned with myself, and am
content."
Beatrice crept back to her chamber; but Euthanasia could not again rest.
She was amazed at her friend's strange words, and tried to divine
whether they proceeded from the heated imagination of the prophetess, or
from some real event of which Euthanasia was ignorant; but she had no
clue to guide her in her conjectures; and it appeared to her most
probable, that Beatrice was moved by the suggestions of her own heart;
she could not guess the dreadful and maniac thoughts that really
disturbed her, or the frightful incitements that had been employed to
deceive her.
A fortnight passed thus; when the Albinois brought a message from
Mandragola, bidding Beatrice repair that same night at twelve, to a wood
about four miles from Lucca. At this time Castruccio was employed in
building the tower of Nozzano, on a small hill which was surrounded by
the wood chosen by the witch. The weather (it was in the month of July)
was exceedingly hot; the cattle panted beneath the sun; the earth was
herbless; all life decayed: but delicious nights succeeded these
oppressive days; and Castruccio was accustomed to repair, as early as
two in the morning, to visit the fortress. Mandragola knew the spot near
which he passed; and she so planned her scheme, that her incantation
should be wound to the desired pitch, at the moment when he should ride
through the wood: and thus, to the simple mind of the Albinois, and the
exalted imagination of Beatrice, afford a proof of the extent of her
power.
It is impossible to say what her object was in all this; she might be
merely instigated by the desire to excite respect and terror, and have
trusted that this apparent confirmation of her assertions would enable
her to acquire unlimited power over the mind of her victims. She did not
intend on this occasion that Beatrice should speak to the prince;--that
she should call for him, and he appear, was sufficient mummery for one
day: another time more might be done, and another step taken in the
labyrinth of error and fraud.
That same night Bindo tapped at the door of Beatrice's chamber. The
prophetess opened it;--she looked aghast and wild, but spoke not.--"This
is the hour," said the Albinois.
"Wrap your cloak round you," he continued, "that you may not be known."
Beatrice did as he desired, moving her arms like inanimate machines, and
turning her eyes around, as if she saw nothing. Bindo led her
down-stairs; they quitted the palace by a small back door; he made her
mount a horse; and they rode out of the town. All passed in silence;
Beatrice hardly appeared to know whither she was going, or why she went;
the bridle fell from her hands, and hung loosely on the horse's neck;
but the animal mechanically followed Bindo's horse, which led the way.
They arrived at the wood, and dismounted. Bindo tied the horses to a
tree, and proceeded cautiously through the intricate paths of the
forest. It was an ilex wood; and the dark foliage canopied them above,
while the moon-beams penetrated through the interstices of the leaves,
and made a chequered shadow upon the ground, which was despoiled of its
grassy covering through long drouth. At length they came to a more
trodden road; and this led to a kind of woody amphitheatre, an open
space in the midst of the trees, one of the corners of which the path
traversed, and all around the ilexes formed a circular boundary of ample
circumference. At one of the extremities, farthest from the path, was a
fountain, which kept a soft murmuring all the still night through. Near
this fountain the witch sat: she was weaving two coronals of ivy, and
muttering as she wove; Beatrice and the Albinois were before her, but
she appeared not to notice them. Beatrice stood, her arms hanging down,
her head fallen on her bosom in a mute lethargy, her cloak had dropt
from her shoulders, and fallen to her feet; she was dressed, as the
witch had commanded, in white: several years had passed since she had
been thus habited, and her attire displayed the thinness of her form and
the paleness of her wasted cheeks; her hands were skinny and yellow, her
hair perfectly grey; a few weeks ago, although mingled with white, its
antient colour was preserved; but since then it had quite changed; her
eyes were sunken, ringed with black, and rayless.
When the witch had finished her work, she rose; and, taking some of the
water of the fountain in the hollow of her hand, she threw it over
Beatrice, and then crowned her with one of the chaplets; she placed the
other on her own head; and then she said to Bindo:--"I am about to
sanctify this place; you must depart."
Bindo bowed assent, and disappeared. She took up a curiously fashioned
ewer of brass; and, filling it at the fount, she walked round the
amphitheatre of trees, sprinkling the ground as she went, and muttering
her incantations, till she came round again to the spot, where Beatrice
stood, white, motionless, and silent. "You appear faint, daughter," she
said; "drink of this water."--She put it to the lips of her victim, who
drank it eagerly; and immediately a change took place in her appearance;
her eyes lighted up, her cheeks were flushed, the heavy chain of
mortality seemed to fall from her, she became active and even gay; by
degrees a kind of transport seized her, a drunkenness of spirit, which
made her lose all constraint over her words and actions, although it did
not blind her to what was passing around.[2]
"Aye, mother," she said, "I know what I come for; now let us begin; I am
an enchantress, you say; I can conjure him to appear, who before defied
my powers? be it so;--let us begin."
"Listen," replied Mandragola, "no art requires so much patience as ours.
We will make our incantations; and you will see him pass on horseback
along that road: do not now seek to speak to him. Exercise your power
moderately at first; and it will be greater afterwards: bind him now
with a straw; in time he will be inextricably enthralled. To-night be it
enough that you see him."
"Enough! oh! I would lay down my life for one, one moment's sight!"
The night was perfectly still; the air was sultry, and not a leaf moved:
the trees, bathed as it were in the cold moonshine, slept; and the earth
received their moveless shadows on her quiet bosom. The fountain
murmured on; beside it stood the witch and Beatrice;--Beatrice, her eyes
lifted to heaven, her arms crossed on her bosom, her hair clinging round
her faded neck. Mandragola was full of business; she piled a small heap
of wood, walking often around it, singing or chanting strange verses,
and scattering water and oil about her; she drew, with a wand formed of
a peeled chesnut-bough, a circle which surrounded the pile and the spot
whereon Beatrice stood, and commanded her not to pass the line till she
should give permission; since that circle would preserve her from the
spirits that their terrible incantations had called around them. She
then turned to the pile again, and placed on it incense and odoriferous
gums, and plants, and strange devices, cut in wood, or moulded in wax,
which no one might understand: then to crown the work she cut off a lock
of Beatrice's hair, and threw it on the heap.
She had just accomplished this work, when a slight sound struck her ear;
"Now is the time!" she exclaimed; and she set up a wild song to drown
the trampling of the approaching horses; she lighted a torch, and
cried--"This is your work, mistress of the powers of air; light the
pyre, and call thrice on the name of the prince of Lucca!"
Beatrice started forward with frantic haste; she seized the torch,
thrust it into the pile, which caught the flame, and blazed up as she
cried aloud, "Castruccio! Castruccio! Castruccio!"
And then, unable to restrain her impatience, she ran towards the path in
which Mandragola had said he would appear. The witch called on her to
stay; but she was too decrepid to follow swiftly to stop her: the sound
of coming horsemen was now distinctly heard; Beatrice threw herself on
her knees, in the midst of the path by which they must pass; with
flashing eyes and outstretched arms, she gazed eagerly forwards: the
dark wood covered her; the moon beams fell on her; and there she, once
the loveliest, now the most lost, the most utterly undone of women,
kneeled in frantic expectation. The horsemen approached; a turn in the
path concealed them, until they were full upon her; and then she saw
Castruccio and Tripalda advance. Her brain, already on fire with
impatience, and her spirits exalted by the drug administered to her,
could no longer sustain the sensations that overpowered her. The
presence of Tripalda was to her the sign of diabolical interference; she
believed him dead; that it was his spirit which then appeared; and, if
so, it was also an unreal form, the resemblance of Castruccio alone,
that she beheld.----She sunk in convulsions on the road.
Castruccio, surprised at what he saw, leaped from his horse; and his
example was followed by his attendants. The witch, who had hitherto
hobbled towards Beatrice, seeing them dismount, endeavoured to escape;
but Tripalda, who, judging of others by himself, was ever ready to
suspect knavery, cut off her retreat, and ordered two of the servants to
hold her. She submitted quietly, but remained invincibly silent to all
the questions that were put to her. Beatrice was carried to the
fountain; and they endeavoured, by chafing her temples, and rubbing her
hands, to bring her to life: the prince himself supported her head; but
he did not recognize her; so utterly was she changed from what the
prophetess of Ferrara had been. Once she opened her eyes; she saw the
face of Castruccio leaning over her, and she smiled. Castruccio thought
that he knew that smile; but Tripalda, leaving the witch, pressed in
among those who were about her.--No one who had seen him could ever
forget him; she saw what she believed to be the evil genius of her life;
and she again sunk into insensibility.
In the mean time the Albinois, who had been lurking near the spot,
hearing the trampling of horses, and the sound of men's voices, ventured
forward. Mandragola saw him first, as he came into the moonshine from
under the dark covert of trees. She darted forward, and cried
aloud--"Fly! fly!" Her words and gesture attracted the notice of her
guards, as Bindo turned about to obey her orders. They pursued him, and
easily took him prisoner.
He was brought to Castruccio, who instantly recognized him. "What do you
here?" he demanded. "Are you not the servant of the countess of
Valperga?"
"I am."
"Who then is this lady? and how came you here?"
"That is Beatrice of Ferrara. I can tell you no more until she"
(pointing to the witch) "gives me leave."
The name of Beatrice was sufficient to transfix the prince with pity and
remorse. "Beatrice!" he cried, and throwing himself on the earth beside
her, he kissed her hand passionately. Her faintness began now to
dissipate; but her reason did not return. The first words she uttered
were those of madness; she raved of that which ever haunted her thoughts
in delirium, her prison in Romagna. Tripalda heard the words, and
started, as if he had trodden on a viper; his sallow complexion became
paler,--but Castruccio did not attend to this, or make out her speech.
He perceived her frenzy; and, unable any longer to endure his remorse,
or the sight of his hapless victim, he gave hasty orders that she should
be conveyed slowly and carefully to the palace of the countess of
Valperga, and her companions be detained as prisoners; and then he rode
off. He rode towards Lucca; and, reflecting on the fright that
Euthanasia might sustain if she saw her unhappy friend brought home in
so miserable a state, he resolved to go first to her palace, and inform
her of what had passed.
"And are you come to this, lovely Beatrice?" he thought. "And is this
the same creature, who, radiant with beauty and joy, formerly gave me
her benediction at the palace of the good old Marsilio? I remember that
day, as if it were yesterday; and now I find her with grey hairs and a
wasted form, a young fruit utterly blighted, and, worse than all, her
reason fallen the victim of her misery. Am I the cause of this?"
He rode on swiftly, and soon arrived at the palace. He did not reflect
that he was going to behold Euthanasia, the beautiful and beloved; and
thinking of nothing but Beatrice, and finding the gates open, he
entered. It was about three in the morning. During the night Euthanasia
had thought that she heard a groan come from the chamber of Beatrice;
and she hastened thither, to discover if any new sorrow disturbed her
unfortunate guest. The chamber was empty; the bed unslept upon; she
sought her in the adjoining rooms; and, not finding her, she became
terrified, and, rousing the house, had the palace searched, but in vain;
no trace of her was left. She sent several messengers to different gates
of the town to learn whether she had been seen, and waited with
inexpressible anxiety for their return.
The prince found men consulting together in the great hall; and the
first words he heard was the name of "Madonna Beatrice."
"Do not be alarmed," he said, coming forward. "I know where she is, and
she will soon be here; some of you see that her couch be prepared, and
seek a physician, for she is very ill. Where is the countess?"
Appearing thus unexpectedly and alone, the men did not recognize the
prince; but the quick ear of Euthanasia caught the sound of his voice;
and, coming out of an adjoining room, she cried, "Do you then know where
my friend is, Castruccio?"
"I do indeed," he replied: "and it is fortunate; since I may have saved
her from evil hands. But I am perfectly ignorant how and why she came to
a spot so far from the town."
He related in a few words where and in what manner he had found her, and
concluded by saying, "I leave her to your care; I know how kind and
generous you are. If she recover, I intreat you to inform me without
delay of so favourable a change."
As he said this, the trampling of horsemen was heard in the streets;--he
cried, "I dare not see her again; farewell, Euthanasia; pity her and
me!"
He hastened from the palace, and in a few minutes after Beatrice was
brought in; her countenance was deadly pale, and her arms hung
lifelessly over the shoulder of one of the men who supported her; her
hair was dank, and her garments wetted with the dew of morning; her eyes
were open, and glared meaninglessly around. They laid her on a bed; and
Euthanasia, approaching, took her hand; Beatrice did not notice her; she
seemed to have lost all sensation, and the rolling of her eyes, and the
convulsive gaspings of her breath, were all the signs of life that she
gave.
Why should I describe the scenes that ensued during the following days?
Descriptions of unmixed horror cannot be pleasing; and what other
feelings could mingle to soften that sensation, on beholding the
declining state of poor Beatrice? She never again had any return of
reason, nor did she ever sleep; generally she lay, as I have described,
pale and motionless; if ever she woke to sensation, it was to rave and
scream, so that the hardest heart might have been penetrated with excess
of pity. Some have seen, most have read the descriptions of, madness.
She called upon Euthanasia, upon Castruccio; but, more than all, she
fancied that she was chained to her dungeon-floor in her tremendous
prison, mocked and laughed at by her keepers; and sometimes she imagined
that these beloved friends were chained beside her, suffering those
torments which she had herself endured. She never in her wildest sallies
uttered a reproachful word against Castruccio, although it appeared that
she sometimes thought that he accused himself; and then with the
tenderest accents, and most winning sweetness, she bade him not grieve,
and assured him that he had committed no fault.
These intervals of raving were short and rare; and, as she became
weaker, she still seldomer emerged from her state of insensibility. She
was evidently dying; the physicians gave no hopes of her life; and the
priests crowded about her. Padre Lanfranco was among them; and he
bitterly reproached himself for having left her, and endeavoured to
compensate for his neglect, by watching day and night for some return of
reason, when he might ask whether she died in the faith of the church.
This never arrived: but the priests were lenient; they placed the
crucifix on her breast, and she seemed to press it; once, when the name
of her Redeemer was mentioned, her eyes lighted up, and a smile seemed
to play upon her lips. She was so perfectly senseless, that this could
have had no connexion with the words that had been used; but the
charitable priests chose to construe it into an enternal assurance of
the salvation of her soul; and they administered the sacraments. She
never spoke afterwards; but day by day she grew weaker; Castruccio sent
continually to inquire of her state; but he dared not come. Euthanasia
hardly ever left her bed side; and she became as pale, and almost as
weak, as the dying Beatrice.
Such had been the effect of the witch's incantations. Beatrice had
needed the tenderest nursing; and she had received instead, a shock
which saner nerves than hers could hardly have sustained. Yet her death
was smoothed to her by the affectionate ministry of her friend; and she
at last lost all sense even of pain. She died, peacefully, and calmly as
a child; and her many sorrows and wrongs no longer filled her with
anguish and despair. She died: Euthanasia was beside her when she heard
a gentle sigh, followed by a fixedness of feature and rigidity of limb,
which shewed that the mighty change had taken place in her frame.
Tears and lamentation succeeded to her death. Euthanasia wished that her
funeral should be private and unnoticed; but Castruccio insisted that it
should be attended with every circumstance of pomp used in those days.
The room was hung with black cloth, and made as dark as night, to give
brightness to the many torches by which it was illuminated. Beatrice was
laid on a bier, arrayed in costly apparel, and canopied with a pall of
black velvet embroidered with gold: flowers, whose beauty and freshness
mocked the livid hues of the corpse, were strewn over her, and scattered
about the room; and two boys walked about, swinging censers of incense.
The chamber was filled with mourning women; one, the chief, dressed in
black, with dishevelled hair, knelt near the head of the bier, and began
the funeral song; she sang a strain in monotonous, but not unmelodious
voice: the verses were extempore, and described the virtues and fortunes
of the deceased; they ended with the words:
_Oime! ora giace morta sulla bara!_[3]
And the other women, taking up the burthen, cried in shrill tones:
_Oime! ora giace morta sulla bara!_
Again they were silent: and the _Cantatrice_, renewing her song,
repeated another verse in praise of poor Beatrice. Castruccio had told
her in part what ought to be the subject of her song. The first verse
described her as beautiful, beloved and prosperous, among her friends
and fellow citizens: "Then," cried the singer, "the spoiler came; she
lost all that was dear to her; and she wandered forth a wretch upon the
earth. Who can tell what she suffered? Evil persons were abroad; they
seized on her; and she became the victim of unspoken crimes: worse ills
followed, madness and heresy, which threatened to destroy her soul."
The woman wept, wept unfeigned tears as she sang; and the hired mourners
sympathized in her grief; each verse ended with the words,
_Oime! ora giace morta sulla bara!_
which were echoed by them all, and accompanied by cries and tears.
She ended; and, night being come, the hour for interment arrived. The
censers were replenished with incense; and the priests sprinkled holy
water about the room. Four lay-brothers raised the bier, and followed a
troop of priests and monks, who went first with the crucifix, chaunting
a _De profundis_. The streets through which they passed, were rendered
as light as day by the glare of torches; after the priests, came the
bier on which the body lay exposed, covered with flowers; many of the
young girls and women of the city followed, each carrying a wax taper; a
troop of horse closed the procession. It was midnight when they entered
the church; the moon threw the shadow of the high window on the
pavement; but all shadows were effaced by the torches which filled the
church. Beatrice was laid in her peaceful grave; and, mass being said
for the repose of her soul, the ceremony closed.
Euthanasia had not been present: and, although she longed for solitude
to weep in peace over the fate of her hapless friend, she was obliged to
receive the visits of the Lucchese ladies, who came to condole with her
on this occasion, and perhaps to satisfy their curiosity concerning its
object. The funeral feast was sumptuous and well attended, though few
knew in whose honour it was given. Euthanasia shrunk from their
questions, and was angry with Castruccio, that he should have placed her
in so disagreeable a situation. It seemed to her better to befit the
hapless fate of Beatrice, that she should have been permitted to depart
unmarked, wept only by those, who knew her worth, and who lamented her
unequaled misfortunes. It was the false pride of Castruccio, that made
him think differently; and such were the prejudices of the times, that
his contemporaries would have agreed with him, that he had in some
degree compensated for the injuries that Beatrice had received from him,
by the magnificence of her funeral.
After the ceremony was ended, Castruccio first thought of the two
individuals whom he had found in the forest with their victim.
Mandragola had preserved an uniform silence; and no threats, nor torture
itself, could induce her to speak. Bindo was formed of frailer clay; she
had charged him not to reveal what had passed, and had imprecated the
most terrible curses on his head, if he disobeyed. He trembled; but the
sight of the instruments of torture overcame him, and he confessed all.
Mandragola was condemned by the laws which then existed in every country
against the dealers in the black art, and suffered death as a witch.
Euthanasia endeavoured to procure the freedom of the Albinois; but in
vain. He was confined in the dungeons of the Dominican convent; he pined
for liberty; and in a few months he died.
The tie which bound Euthanasia to Lucca, was now broken. For many days
she sorrowed, forgetful of herself, over the fate of her friend. By
degrees however the feelings of actual life returned to her; and she
longed to quit a town, which had been for her the theatre of tremendous
misfortune. Two months after the death of Beatrice she returned to
Florence; where she found, in the society of her friends, and in the
cultivation of her mind, some alleviation for her sorrow, and some
compensation for the many evils she had endured.
[Footnote 2: Jusquiamo [henbane: hebenon, _Shakespear_] was
the principal ingredient in these intoxicating draughts. They
had the property of producing madness.]
[Footnote 3: Alas! she now lies dead upon the bier!]