Imogen read the epistle, and then for the satisfaction of Iachimo quoted what Posthumus had written concerning his messenger :

"He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust.

LEONATUS."

The Princess, a woman of bright, vivacious temperament, with a loving, pure, and generous heart, accepted these words of commendation from her absent lord, and welcomed Iachimo with unsuspecting warmth. Then, with her confidence enkindled towards him, the subtle Italian began to pour the poison of his evil nature into her mind by suggesting that Posthumus, who had left her, brokenhearted, weeping bitter tears at the parting, had soon learned how to console himself. He was the loudest ruffler of a merry band of companions and had earned the name of the British reveller. He had found the ladies of Rome to be very attractive, and already, said Iachimo, he was not only forgetful, but unfaithful, wasting his time with reckless companions, and forgetting his duty and his faith so far as Imogen was concerned. The fluent speech and ready suggestions of the Italian seemed to bear the stamp of truth, and the Princess listened to the story with growing horror. Perceiving her dismay and rising anger, Iachimo thought that the time had come for him to make a final step. He pleaded his own love for the British Princess. At first she could not credit her hearing, but when she realised what he meant, her indignation broke out against him and she overwhelmed him in the torrent of a noble woman's wrath. He saw then that he had

gone too far, and that all the confidence of Posthumus in the nobility of his wife was well founded; but he was determined to obtain the stakes of his wager by fair means or foul. Suddenly changing his tactics, he assured the indignant lady that all his words were mere pretence, that Posthumus was living in high repute in Rome, and his faith to Imogen was unbroken and unsullied. When he had reassured her, he begged her to forget everything that he had said against her lord or spoken of his own affection, and in token of her forgiveness he craved that she would grant a request he had to make which concerned Posthumus and certain noble Romans.

"Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord," replied Iachimo,

66

(The best feather of our wing), have mingled sums
To buy a present for the emperor;

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done

In France: 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels
Of rich and exquisite form; their values great ;
And I am something curious, being strange,
To have them in safe stowage: may it please you
To take them in protection?

They are in a trunk,

Attended by my men: I will make bold

To send them to you, only for this night;

I must aboard to-morrow."

Imogen gladly undertook to be responsible for the valuable treasure-chest, and said that as her lord had

interest in its safety she would place it in her sleeping chamber, and pawn her honour for its keeping. The heavy trunk was soon afterwards brought to her by the men, and under her directions it was placed within her sleeping-room. But the crafty Italian, carrying out the plot suggested by his wicked mind, had concealed himself within the box, and now lay awaiting the hours of darkness in order that when the Princess was fast asleep he might be enabled to glean all the particulars he required to assure Posthumus that he had succeeded in his evil design. When the hour of midnight approached, Imogen, who had been reading in bed, summoned her attendant, and asked to be aroused at the first gleam of daylight. The lady promised, and retired, leaving a taper burning.

When all was quiet and the gentle breathing of the Princess showed that she was in a deep sleep, the click of a spring was heard, the lid of the trunk was lifted noiselessly, and, in the flickering light of the taper, the white face of Iachimo appeared. For a few minutes he made a careful examination of the room, and then came out of his hiding-place, and bent over the unconscious sleeper. Her bracelet caught his eye, and with gentle touch he slowly worked it from its place and took it from her arm. He glanced at the open book and noted the page. He took in every detail of the furnishing of the room.

Just then the clock struck three, the sleeper stirred upon her pillow, and the spy crept back to the trunk. The spring clicked as he closed the lid with a firm, gentle pressure, and then profound silence reigned. Slowly the first gleams of the morning stole across the eastern sky and a tiny shaft of sunlight pierced the

curtains and lay like a golden coin upon the floor of the sleeping-chamber. There was a sound of quiet footsteps outside the door, the tuning of instruments, and presently soft music was heard in the corridor, and a rich voice sang a morning greeting to Imogen:

"Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phœbus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:

Arise, arise!"

The musicians had been engaged by Cloten, who wished to draw the Princess from the seclusion of her own room, but the song did not have the effect he desired. He dismissed the musicians and tried what knocking at the door would do. While he was endeavouring to bribe the waiting-lady who answered, the Princess herself came forth. Cloten seized the opportunity to press his love upon her, and was repulsed with quiet, decisive words. When he persisted in spite of her protest, Imogen spoke plainly:

"I am much sorry, sir,

You put me to forget a lady's manners,

By being so verbal and learn now for all
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By the very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity,

(To accuse myself), I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast."

Cloten replied, in the worst possible way, by reviling the absent Posthumus, calling him a base wretch, one bred of alms and fostered with cold dishes and scraps of the Court, and declaring that a marriage with so base-born a slave was no contract at all, and therefore that Imogen was only a wife in imagination. He swore to be revenged, and it seemed that now his love for Imogen had turned to hate. The Princess had missed her bracelet, and this concerned her far more than the angry vapourings of the clownish Cloten. She ordered Pisanio to search for it, for she said that she would not lose it for the revenue of a king. Meanwhile, the Italian was enduring his imprisonment in the trunk, awaiting with considerable apprehension and much discomfort the coming of his men. When the Princess saw the heavy trunk being carried away, she little thought that within it lay a wicked plotter whose lying tongue would shatter her happiness, and destroy in the mind of her husband that faith which is the dearest bond between loving hearts.

Iachimo reached Rome in safety, and sped with haste to the house of Philario. He had been defeated, but he meant to secure the diamond by lying, and had concocted a very plausible tale. Philario was a shrewd old man, and more than once suggested to Posthumus during the telling of the story that appearances might be against the Princess and yet all the while her truth and purity be unsullied, but the studied words and seeming good faith of Iachimo impressed him unduly, and he leaped to the conclusion that his wife was