And yet God knows! they may need more pity than we dream of! But let me to my task.

I, Fabio Romani, lately deceased, am about to chronicle the events of one short year--a year in which was compressed the agony of a long and tortured life-time! One little year!--one sharp thrust from the dagger of Time! It pierced my heart--the wound still gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is tainted as it falls! One suffering, common to many, I have never known--that is--poverty.

I was born rich.

When my father, Count Filippo Romani, died, leaving me, then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions--sole head of his powerful house--there were many candid friends who, with their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my future.

Nay, there were even some who looked forward to my physical and mental destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation--and they were estimable persons too.