The days passed by and Angelo's revenge still hung fire. Scrope never met his fate at a short turning of one of the dusky Roman streets; he came in punctually every evening at eleven o'clock. I wondered whether our brooding friend had already spent the sinister force of a nature formed to be lazily contented. I hoped so, but I was wrong. We had gone to walk one afternoon, ----the ladies, Scrope and I, ----in the charming Villa Borghese, and, to escape from the rattle of the fashionable world and it's distraction, we had wandered away to an unfrequented corner where the old mouldering wall and the slim black cypresses and the untrodden grass made, beneath the splendid Roman sky, the most harmonious of picture