When Silvestro was gone, a haggard look came over the marchesa's pale face. One by one she turned over the leaves of the rental lying before her, glanced at them, then laid the book down upon the desk. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and fell into a fit of musing—the burning papers on the hearth, and those also smouldering on the floor, lighting up every grain in the wood-work of the cupboards at her back.

This was ruin—absolute ruin! The broad lands that spread wellnigh for forty miles in the mountains and along the river Serchio—the feudal tower in which she sat, over which still floated, on festivals, the banner of the Guinigi (crosses of gold on a red field—borne at the Crusades); the stately palace at Lucca—its precious heirlooms—strangers must have it all!

She had so fortified herself against all signs of outward emotion, other than she chose to show, that even in solitude she was composed; but the veins swelled in her forehead, and she turned very white. Yet there had been a way. "Enrica"—her name escaped the marchesa's thin lips unwittingly. "Enrica."—The sound of her own voice startled her. (Enrica was now alone, shut up by her aunt's order in her little chamber on the third floor over her own. On their arrival, the marchesa had sternly dismissed her without a word.)

"Enrica."—With that name rose up within her a thousand conflicting thoughts. She had severed herself from Enrica. But for Cavaliere Trenta she would have driven her from the palace. She had not cared whether Enrica lived or died—indeed, she had wished her dead. Yet Enrica could save the land—the palace—make the great name live! Had she but known all this at Lucca! Was it too late? Trenta had urged the marriage with Count Nobili. But Trenta urged every marriage. Could she consent to such a marriage? Own herself ruined—wrong?—Feel Nobili's foot upon her neck?—Impossible! Her obstinacy was so great, that she could not bring herself to yield, though all that made life dear was slipping from her grasp.

Yes—yes, it was too late.—The thing was done. She must stand to her own words. Tortures would not have wrung it from her—but in the solitude of that bare room the marchesa felt she had gone too far. The landmark of her life, her pride, broke down; her stout heart failed—tears stood in her dark eyes.

At this moment the report of a gun was heard ringing out from the mountains opposite. It echoed along the cliffs and died away into the abyss below. The marchesa was instantly leaning out of the lowest loop-hole, and calling in a loud voice, "Adamo—Adamo—Angelo, where are you?" (Adamo and Pipa his wife, and Angelo their son, were her attendants.)

Adamo, a stout, big-limbed man, bull-necked—with large lazy eyes and a black beard as thick as horse-hair, a rifle slung by a leather strap across his chest, answered out of the shrubs—now blackening in the twilight: "I am here, padrona, command me."

"Adamo, who is shooting on my land?"

"Padrona, I do not know."

"Where is Angelo?"

"Here am I," answered a childish voice, and a ragged, loose-limbed lad—a shock of chestnut hair, out of which the sun had taken all the color, hanging over his face, from which his merry eyes twinkle—leaped out on the gravel.

"You do not know, Adamo? What does this mean? You ought to know. I am but just come back, and there are strangers about already with guns. Is this the way you serve me, Adamo?—and I pay you a crown a month. You idle vagabond!"

"Padrona," spoke Adamo in a deep voice—"I am here alone—this boy helps me but little."

"Alone, Adamo! you dare to say alone, and you have the dogs? Hear how they bark—they have heard the shot too—good dogs, good dogs, they are left me—alone.—Argo is stronger than three men; Argo knocks over any one, and he is trained to follow on the scent like a bloodhound. Adamo, you are an idiot!" Adamo hung his head, either in shame or rage, but he dared not reply.

"Now take the dogs out with you instantly—you hear, Adamo? Argo, and Ponto the bull-dog, and Tuzzi and the others. Take them and go down at once to the bottom of the cliffs. Search among the rocks everywhere. Creep along the vines-terraces, and through the olive-grounds. Be sure when you go down below the cliffs to search the mouth of the chasm. Go at once. Set the dogs on all you find. Argo will pin them. He is a brave dog. With Argo you are stronger than any one you will meet. If you catch any men, take them at once to the municipality. Wretches, they deserve it!—poaching in my woods! Listen—before you go, tell Pipa to come to me soon."

Pipa's footsteps came clattering up the stairs to the marchesa's room. The light of the lamp she carried—for it was already dark within the tower—caught the spray of the fountain outside as she passed the narrow slits that served for windows.

"Pipa," said the marchesa, as she stood before her in the doorway, a broad smile on her merry brown face, "set that lamp on the desk here before me. So—that will do. Now go up-stairs and tell the Signorina Enrica that I bid her 'Good-night,' and that I will see her to-morrow morning after breakfast. Then you may go to bed, Pipa. I am busy, and shall sit up late." Pipa curtsied in silence, and closed the marchesa's door.



CHAPTER III.

WHAT CAME OF BURNING THE MARCHESA'S PAPERS.

Midnight had struck from the church-clock at Corellia. The strokes seemed to come slower by night than day, and sounded hollower. Hours ago the last light had gone out. The moon had set behind the cleft summits of La Pagna. Distant thunder had died away among the rocks. The night was close and still. The villa lay in deep shadow, but the outline of the turrets of the tower were clearly marked against the starry sky. All slept, or seemed to sleep.

A thin blue vapor curls out from the marchesa's casement. This vapor, at first light as a fog-drift, winds itself upward, and settles into a cloud, that hovers in the air. Each moment the cloud rises higher and higher. Now it has grown into a lurid canopy, that overhangs the tower. A sudden glow from an arched loop-hole on the second story shows every bar of iron across it. This is caught up below in a broad flash across the basin of the fountain. Within there is a crackling as of dry leaves—a clinging, heavy smell of heated air. Another and another flame curls round the narrow loop-hole, twisting upward on the solid wall.

At this instant there is a low growl, as from a kicked dog. A door below is banged-to and locked. Then steps are heard upon the gravel. It is Adamo. He had returned, as the marchesa bade him, and has come to tell her he has searched everywhere—down even to the reeds by the river Serchio (where he had discharged his gun at a water-hen), but had found no one, though all the way the dogs had sniffed and whined.

Adamo catches sight of the crimson glare reflected upon the fountain. He looks up at the tower—he sees the flames. A look of horror comes into his round black eyes. Then, with a twitch, settling his gun firmly upon his shoulder, he rushes to the unlocked door and flings it wide open.

"Pipa! Wife! Angelo!" Adamo shouts down the stone passage connecting the tower with the villa where they slept. "Wake up! The tower is on fire! Fire! Fire!"

As Adam opened his mouth, the rush of hot air, pent upon the winding stair, drawn downward by the draught from the open door, catches his breath. He staggers against the wall. Then the strong man shook himself together—again he shouts, "Pipa! Pipa! rise!"

Without waiting for an answer, putting his hand over his mouth, Adamo charges up the stone stairs—up to the marchesa's door. Her room is on fire.

"I must save her! I must save her! I will think of Pipa and the children afterward."

Each step Adamo takes upward, the heat grows fiercer, the smoke that pours down denser. Twice he had slipped and almost fallen, but he battles bravely with the heat and blinding smoke, and keeps his footing.

Now Adamo is on the landing of the first floor—Adamo blinded, his head reeling—but lifting his strong limbs, and firm broad feet, he struggles upward. He has reached the marchesa's door. The place is marked by a chink of fire underneath. Adamo passes his hand over the panel; it is unconsumed, the fire drawing the other way out by the window.

"O God! if the door is bolted! I shall drop if I am not quick." Adamo's fingers were on the lock. "The door is bolted! Blessed Virgin, help me!"

He unslings his unloaded gun—he had forgotten it till then—and, tightly seizing it in his strong hands, he flings the butt end against the lock. The wood is old, the bolt is loose.

"Holy Jesus! It yields! It opens!"

Overcome by the rush of fiery air, again Adamo staggers. As he lifts his hands to raise the hair, which, moist from heat, clings to his forehead, his fingers strike against a medal of the Virgin he wore round his naked throat.

"Mother of God, help me!" A desperate courage seizes him; he rushes in—all before him swims in a red mist. "Help me, Madonna!" comes to his parched lips. "O God, where is the marchesa?"

A puff of wind from the open door for an instant raised the smoke and sparks; in that instant Adamo sees a dark heap lying on the floor close to the door. It is the marchesa. "Is she dead or alive?" He cannot stop to tell. He raises her. She lay within his arms. Her dark dress, though not consumed, strikes hot against his chest. Not an instant is to be lost. The fresh rush of air up the stairs has fanned the flames. Every moment they are rising higher. They redden on the dark rafters of the ceiling. The sparks fly about in dazzling clouds. Adamo is on the threshold. Outside it is now so dark that, spite of danger, he has to pause and feel his way downward, or he might dash his precious burden against the walls. In that pause a piercing cry from above strikes upon his ear, but in the crackling of the increasing flames and a fresh torrent of smoke and burning sparks that burst out from the room, Adamo's brain—always of the dullest—is deadened. He forgets that cry. All his thought is to save his mistress. Even Pipa and Angelo and little Gigi are forgotten.

Ere he reaches the level of the first story, the alarm-bell over his head clangs out a goodly peal. A bound of joy within his honest heart gives him fresh courage.

"It is the Madonna! When I touched her image, I knew that she would help me. Pipa has heard me. Pipa has pulled the bell. She is safe! And Angelo—and little Gigi, safe! safe! Brave Pipa! How I love her!"

Before a watch could tick twenty seconds, and while Adamo's foot was still on the last round of the winding stair, the church-bells of Corellia clash out in answer to the alarm-bell.

Now Adamo has reached the outer door. He stands beneath the stars. His face and hands are black, his hair is singed; his woolen clothes are hot and burn upon him. The cool night air makes his skin smart with pain. Already Pipa's arms are round him. Angelo, too, has caught him by the legs, then leaps into the air with a wild hoot. Bewildered Pipa cannot speak. No more can Adamo; but Pipa's clinging arms say more than words. Tenderly Adamo lays the marchesa down beside the fountain. He totters on a step or two, feeling suddenly giddy and strangely weak. He stands still. The strain had been too much for the simple soul, who led a quiet life with Pipa and the children. Tears rise in his big black eyes. Greatly ashamed, and wondering what has come to him, he sinks upon the ground. Pipa, watching him, again flings her arms about him; but Adamo gave her a glance so fierce, as he points to the marchesa lying helpless upon the ground, it sent her quickly from him. With a smothered sob Pipa turns away to help her.

(Ah! cruel Pipa, and is your heart so full that you have forgotten Enrica, left helpless in the tower?—Yet so it was. Enrica is forgotten. Cruel, cruel Pipa! And stupid Adamo, whose head turns round so fast he must hold on by a tree not to fall again.)

Silvestro and Fra Pacifico now rushed out of the darkness; Fra Pacifico aroused out of his first sleep. He had not seen the marchesa since her arrival. He did not know whether Enrica had come with her from Lucca or not. Seeing Pipa busy about the fountain, the women, thought Fra Pacifico, were safe; so Fra Pacifico strode off on his strong legs to see what could be done to quench the fire, and save, if possible, the more combustible villa. Surely the villa must be consumed! The smoke now darkened the heavens. The flames belted the thick tower-walls as with a burning girdle. Showers of sparks and flames rose out from each aperture with sudden bursts, revealing every detail on the gray old walls; moss and lichen, a trail of ivy that had forced itself upward, long grass that floated in the hot air; a crevice under the battlements where a bird had built its nest. Then a swirl of smoke swooped down and smothered all, while overhead the mighty company of constellations looked calmly down in their cold brightness!

A crowd of men now came running down from Corellia, roused by the church-bells. Pietro, the baker, still hard at work, was the first to hear the bell, to dash into the street, and shout, "Help! help! Fire! fire! At the villa!"

Oreste and Pilade heard him. They came tumbling out. Ser Giacomo roused the sindaco—who in his turn woke his clerk; but when Mr. Sindaco was fairly off down the hill, this much-injured and very weary youth turned back and went to bed.

Some bore lighted torches, others copper buckets. Pietro, the butcher, brought the municipal ladder. These men promptly formed a line down the hill, to carry the water from the willful mountain-stream that fed the town fountain. Fra Pacifico took the lead. (He had heard the alarm, and had rung the church-bells himself.) No one cared for the marchesa; but a burning house was a fine sight, and where Fra Pacifico went all Corellia followed. Adamo, recovered now, was soon upon the ladder, receiving the buckets from below. Pipa beside the fountain watched the marchesa, sprinkling water on her face. "Surely her eyelids faintly quiver!" thinks Pipa.—Pipa watched the marchesa speechless—watched her as birth and death are only watched!

The marchesa's eyes had quivered; now they slowly unclose. Pipa, who, next to the Virgin and the saints, worshiped her mistress—laughed wildly—sobbed—then laughed again—kissed her hand, her forehead—then pressed her in her arms. Supported by Pipa, the marchesa sat up—she turned, and then she saw the mountains of smoke bursting from the tower, forming into great clouds that rose over the tree-tops, and shut out the stars. The marchesa glanced quickly round with her keen, black eyes—she glanced as one searching for some thing she cannot find; then her lips parted, and one word fell faintly from them: "Enrica!"

Pipa caught the half-uttered name, she echoed it with a scream.

"Ahi! The signorina! The Signorina Enrica!"

Pipa shouted to Adamo on the ladder.

"Adamo! Adamo! where is the signorina?"

Adamo's heart sank at her voice. On the instant he recalled that cry he had heard upon the stairs.

"Where did you see her last?" Adamo shouted back to Pipa out of the din—his big stupid eyes looking down upon her face. "Up-stairs?"

Pipa nodded. She could not speak, it was too horrible.

"Santo Dio! I did not know it!" He struck upon his breast. "Assassin! I have killed her! Assassin! Beast! what have I done?"

Again the air rang with Pipa's shrill cries. The Corellia men, who with eager hands pass the buckets down the hill, stop, and stare, and wonder. Fra Pacifico, who had eyes and ears for every one, turned, and ran forward to where Pipa sat wringing her hands upon the ground, the marchesa leaning against her.

"Is Enrica in the tower?" asked Fra Pacifico.

"Yes, yes!" the marchesa answered feebly. "You must save her!"

"Then follow me!" shouted the priest, swinging his strong arms above his head.

Adamo leaped from the ladder. Others—they were among the very poorest—stepped out and joined him and the priest; but at the very entrance they were met and buffeted by such a gust of fiery wind, such sparks and choking smoke, that they all fell back aghast. Fra Pacifico alone stood unmoved, his tall, burly figure dark against the glare. At this instant a man wrapped in a cloak rushed out of the wood, crossed the red circle reflected from the fire, and dashed into the archway.

"Stop him! stop him!" shouted Adamo from behind.

"You go to certain death!" cried Fra Pacifico, laying his hand upon him.

"I am prepared to die," the other answered, and pushed by him.

Twice he essayed to mount the stairs. Twice he was driven back before them all. See! He has covered his head with his cloak. He has set his foot firmly upon the stone steps. Up, up he mounts—now he is gone! Without there was a breathless silence. "Who is he?—Can he save her?"—Words were not spoken, but every eye asked this question. The men without are brave, ready to face danger in dark alley—by stream or river—or on the mountain-side. Danger is pastime to them, but each one feels in his own heart he is glad not to go. Fra Pacifico stands motionless, a sad stern look upon his swarthy face. For the first time in his life he has not been foremost in danger!

By this time, Fra Pacifico thinks, unless choked, the stranger must be near the upper story.

The marchesa has now risen. She stands upright, her eyes riveted on the tower. She knows there is a door that opens from the top of the winding stair, on the highest story, next Enrica's room, a door out on the battlements. Will the stranger see it? O God! will he see it?—or is the smoke too thick?—or has he fainted ere he reached so high?—or, if he has reached her, is Enrica dead? How heavy the moments pass—weighted with life or death! Look, look! Surely something moves between the turrets of the tower! Yes, something moves. It rises—a muffled form between the turrets—the figure of a man wrapped in a cloak—on the near side out of the smoke and flames. Yes—it is the stranger—Enrica in his arms! All is clearly seen, cut as it were against a crimson background. A shout rises from every living man—a deep, full shout as out of bursting hearts that vent themselves. Out of the shout the words ring out—"The steps!—the steps!—There—to the right—cut in the battlements! The steps!—the steps!—close by the flagstaff! Pass the steps down to the lower roof of the villa" (The wind set on the other side, drawing the fire that way. The villa was not touched.)

The stranger heard and bowed his head. He has found the steps—he has reached the lower roof of the villa—he is safe!

No one below had moved. The hands by which the water was passed were now laid upon the ladder. It was shifted over to the other side against the villa walls. Adamo and Fra Pacifico stand upon the lower rungs, to steady it. The stranger throws his cloak below, the better to descend.

"Who is he?" That strong, well-knit frame, those square shoulders, that curly chestnut hair, the pleasant smile upon his glowing face, proclaim him. It is Count Nobili! He has lands along the Serchio, between Barga and Corellia, and was well known as a keen sportsman.

"Bravo! bravo! Evviva! Count Nobili—evviva!" Caps were tossed into the air, hands were wildly clapped, friendly arms are stretched out to bear him up when he descends. Adamo is wildly excited; Adamo wants to mount the ladder to help. The others pull him back. Fra Pacifico stands ready to receive Enrica, a baffled look on his face. It is the first time Fra Pacifico has stood by and seen another do his work.

See, Count Nobili is on the ladder, Enrica in his arms! As his feet touch the ground, again the people shout: "Bravo! Count Nobili! Evviva!" Their hot southern blood is roused by the sight of such noble daring. The people press upon him—they fold him in their arms—they kiss his hands, his cheeks, even his very feet.

Nobili's eyes flash. He, too, forgets all else, and, with a glance that thrills Enrica from head to foot, he kisses her before them all. The men circle round him. They shout louder than before.

As the crowd parted, the dark figure of the marchesa, standing near the fountain, was disclosed. Before she had time to stir, Count Nobili had led Enrica to her. He knelt upon the ground, and, kissing Enrica's hand, placed it within her own. Then he rose, and, with that grace natural to him, bowed and stood aside, waiting for her to speak.

The marchesa neither moved nor did she speak. When she felt the warm touch of Enrica's hand within her own, it seemed to rouse her. She drew her toward her and kissed her with more love than she had ever shown before.

"I thank you, Count Nobili," she said, in a strange, cold voice. Even at that moment she could not bring herself to look him in the face. "You have saved my niece's life."

"Madame," replied Nobili, his sweet-toned voice trembling, "I have saved my own. Had Enrica perished, I should not have lived."

In these few words the chivalric nature of the man spoke out. The marchesa waved her hand. She was stately even now. Nobili understood her gesture, and, stung to the very soul, he drew back.

"Permit me," he said, haughtily, before he turned away, "to add my help to those who are laboring to save your house."

The marchesa bowed her head in acquiescence; then, with unsteady steps, she moved backward and seated herself upon the ground.

Pipa, meanwhile, had flung her arms about Enrica, with such an energy that she pinned her to the spot. Pipa pressed her hands about Enrica, feeling every limb; Pipa turned Enrica's white face up ward to the blaze; she stroked her long, fair hair that fell like a mantle round her.

"Blessed Mother!" she sobbed, drawing her coarse fingers through the matted curls, "not a hair singed! Oh, the noble count! Oh, how I love him—"

"No, dear Pipa," Enrica answered, softly, "I am not hurt—only frightened. The fire had but just reached the door when he came. He was just in time."

"To think we had forgotten her!" murmured Pipa, still holding her tightly.

"Who remembered me first?" asked Enrica, eagerly.

"The marchesa, signorina, the marchesa. She remembered you. The marchesa was brought down by Adamo. Your name was the first word she uttered."

Enrica's blue eyes glistened. In an instant she had disengaged herself from Pipa, and was kneeling at the marchesa's feet.

"Dear aunt, forgive me. Now that I am saved, forgive me! You must forgive me, and forgive him, too!"

These last words came faint and low. The marchesa put her finger on her lip.

"Not now, Enrica, not now. To-morrow we will speak."

Meanwhile Count Nobili, Fra Pacifico, and the Corellia men, strove what human strength could do to put the fire out. Even the sindaco, forgetting the threats about his rent, labored hard and willingly—only Silvestro did nothing. Silvestro seemed stunned; he sat upon the ground staring, and crying like a child.

To save the rooms within the tower was impossible. Every plank of wood was burning. The ceilings had fallen in; only the blackened walls and stone stairs remained. The villa was untouched—the wind, setting the other way, and the thick walls of the tower, had saved it.

Now every hand that could be spared was turned to bring beds from the steward's for the marchesa and Enrica. They had gone into Pipa's room until the villa was made ready. Pipa told Adamo, and he told the others, that the marchesa had not seen the burning papers, and the lighted pile of wood, until the flames rose high behind her back. She had rushed forward, and fallen.

When all was over, Count Nobili was carried up the hill back to Corellia, in triumph, on the shoulders of Pietro the baker, and Oreste, the strongest of the brothers. Every soul of the poor townsfolk—women as well as men who had not gone down to help—had risen, and was out. They had put lights into their windows. They crowded the doorways. The market-place was full, and the church-porch. The fame of Nobili's courage had already reached them. All bless him as he passes—bless him louder when Nobili, all aglow with happiness, empties his pockets of all the coin he has, and promises more to-morrow. At this the women lay hold of him, and dance round him. It was long before he was released. At last Fra Pacifico carried him off, almost by force, to sleep at the curato.



CHAPTER IV.

WHAT A PRIEST SHOULD BE.

Fra Pacifico was a dark, burly man, with a large, weather-beaten face, kind gray eyes under a pair of shaggy eyebrows, a resolute nose, large, full-lipped mouth, and a clean-shaven double chin, that rested comfortably upon his priestly stock. He was no longer young, but he had a frame like iron, and in his time he had possessed a force of arm and muscle enough to fell an ox. His strength and daring were acknowledged by all the mountain-folks from Corellia to Barga, hardy fellows, and judges of what a man can do. Moreover, Fra Pacifico was more than six feet high—and who does not respect a man of such inches? In fair fight he had killed his man—a brigand chief—who prowled about the mountains toward Carrara. His band had fled and never returned.

Fra Pacifico had stood with his strong feet planted on the earth, over the edge of a rocky precipice—by which the high-road passed—and seized a furious horse dragging a cart holding six poor souls below. Fra Pacifico had found a shepherd of Corellia—one of his flock—struck down by fever on a rocky peak some twenty miles distant, and he had carried him on his back, and laid him on his bed at home. Every one had some story to tell of his prowess, coolness, and manly daring. When he walked along the streets, the ragged children—as black with sun and dirt as unfledged ravens—sidled up to him, and, looking up into his gray eyes, ran between his firm-set legs, plucked him by the cassock, and felt in his pockets for an apple or a cake. Then the children held him tight until he had raised them up and kissed them.

Spite of the labors of the previous night (no one had worked harder), Fra Pacifico had risen with daybreak. His office accustomed him to little sleep. There was no time by day or night that he could call his own. If any one was stricken with sickness in the night, or suddenly seized for death in those pale hours when the day hovers, half-born, over the slumbering earth, Fra Pacifico must rise and wake his acolyte, the baker's boy, who, going late to bed, was hard to rouse. Along with him he must grope up and down slippery steps, and along dark alleys, bearing the Host under a red umbrella, until he had placed it within the dying lips. If a baby was weakly, or born before its time, and, having given one look at this sorrowful world, was about to lose its eyes on it forever, Fra Pacifico must run out at any moment to christen it.

There was no doctor at Corellia, the people were too poor; so Fra Pacifico was called upon to do a doctor's duty. He must draw the teeth of such as needed it; bind up cuts and sores; set limbs; and give such simple drugs as he knew the nature of. He must draw up papers for those who could not afford to pay the notary; write letters for those who could only make a cross; hear and conceal every secret that reached him in the confessional or on the death-bed. He must be at hand at any hour in the twenty-four—ready to counsel, soothe, command, and reprimand; to bless, to curse, and, if need be, to strike, when his righteous anger rose; to fetch and carry for all, and, poor himself, to give out of his scanty store. These were his priestly duties.

Fra Pacifico lived at the back of the old Lombard church of Santa Barbara, in a house overlooking a damp square, overgrown with moss and weeds. Between the tower where the bells hung, and the body of the church, an open loggia (balcony), roofed with wood and tiles, rested on slender pillars. In the loggia, Fra Pacifico, when at leisure, would sit and rest and read his breviary; sometimes smoke a solitary pipe—stretching out his shapely legs in the luxury of doing nothing. Behind the loggia were the priest's four rooms, bare even for the bareness of that squalid place. He kept no servant, but it was counted an honor to serve him, and the mothers of Corellia came by turns to cook and wash for him.

Fra Pacifico, as I have said, had risen at daybreak. Now he is searching to find a messenger to send to Lucca, as the marchesa had desired, to summon Cavaliere Trenta. That done, he takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the church-door. Here, kneeling at the altar, he celebrates a private mass of thanksgiving for the marchesa and Enrica. Then, with long strides, he descends the hill to see what is doing at the villa.



CHAPTER V.

"SAY NOT TOO MUCH."

The sun was streaming on mountain and forest before Count Nobili woke from a deep sleep. As he cast his drowsy eyes around upon the homely little room, the coarsely-painted frescoes on the walls—the gaudy cups and plates arranged in a cupboard opposite the bed—and on a wax Gesu Bambino, placed in state upon the mantel-piece, surrounded by a flock of blue sheep, browsing on purple grass, he could not at first remember where he was. The noises from the square below—the clink of the donkey's hoofs upon the pavement as they struggled up the steep alley laden with charcoal; the screams of children—the clamor of women's voices moving to and fro with their wooden shoes—and the boom of the church-bells sounding overhead for morning mass—came to him as in a dream.

As he raised his hand to push back the hair which fell over his eyes, a sharp twitch of pain—for his hands were scorched and blistered—brought all that had happened vividly before him. A warmth of joy and love glowed at his heart. He had saved Enrica's life. Henceforth that life was his. From that day they would never part. From that day, forgetting all others, he would live for her alone.

He must see her instantly—if possible, before his enemy, her aunt, had risen—see Enrica, and speak to her, alone. Oh, the luxury of that! How he longed to feast his eyes upon the softness of her beauty! To fill his ears with the music of her voice! To touch her little hand, and scent the fragrance of her breath upon his cheek! There was no thought within Nobili but love and loyalty. At that moment Enrica was the only woman in the world whom he loved, or ever could love!

He dressed himself in haste, opened the door, and stepped out into the loggia. Not finding Fra Pacifico there, or in the other rooms, he passed down the stone steps into the little square, threading his way beyond as he best could, through the tortuous little alleys toward the gate. Most of the men had already gone to work; but such as lingered, or whose business kept them at home, rose as he passed, and bared their heads to him. The mothers and the girls stared at him and smiled; troops of children followed at his heels through the town, until he reached the gate.

Without, the holiness of Nature was around. The morning air blew upon him crisp and clear. The sky, blue as a turquoise, was unbroken by a cloud. The trees were bathed in gold. The chain of Apennines rose up before him in lines of dreamy loveliness, like another world, midway toward heaven. A passing shower veiled the massive summits toward Massa and Carrara, but the broad valley of the Serchio, mapped out in smallest details, lay serenely luminous below. Beyond the gate there was no certain road. It broke into little tracts and rocky paths terracing downward. Following these, streams ran bubbling, sparkling like gems as they dashed against the stones. No shadows rested upon the grass, cooled by the dew and carpeted by flowers. The woods danced in the October sunshine. Painted butterflies and gnats circled in the warm air; green lizards gamboled among the rocks that cut the turf. Flocks of autumn birds swooped round in rapid flight. Some freshly-shorn sheep, led by a ragged child, cropped the short herbage fragrant with strong herbs. A bristly pig carrying a bell about his neck, ran wildly up and down the grassy slope in search of chestnuts.

Through this sylvan wilderness Nobili came stepping downward by the little paths, like a young god full of strength and love!

The villa lay beneath him; the blackened ruins of the tower rose over the chestnut-tops. These blackened ruins showed him which way to go. As he set his foot upon the topmost terrace of the garden, his heart beat fast.

Enrica would be there, he knew it. Enrica would be waiting for him. Could Nobili yearn so fondly for Enrica and she not know it? Could the mystic bond that knit them together, from the first moment they had met, leave her unconscious of his presence? No; that subtile charm that draws lovers together, and breathes from heart to heart the sacred fire, had warned her. She was standing there—there, beneath him, under the shadow of a flowery thicket. Enrica was leaning against the trunk of a magnolia-tree, the shining leaves framing her in a rich canopy, through which a glint of sunshine pierced, falling upon her light hair and the white dress she wore.

Nobili paused to look at her. Miser-like, he would pause to gloat upon his treasure! How well a golden glory would become that sunny head! She only wanted wings, he thought, to make an angel of her. Enrica's face was bent. Her thoughts, far away, were lost in a delicious world, neither earth nor heaven—a world with Nobili! What mysteries were there, what unknown joys, or sharper pains perchance, she neither knew nor cared. She would share all with him! In a moment the place she stood on was darkened. Something stood between her and the sun. She looked up and gave a little cry, then stood motionless, the color going and coming upon her cheek. One bound, and Nobili was beside her. He strained her to him with a passion that robbed him of all words. Scarcely knowing what he did, he grasped the tangled meshes of her silken hair and covered them with kisses. Then he raised her soft face in his hand, and gazed upon it long and fervently.

Enrica's plaintive eyes melted as they met his. She quivered in his embrace. Her whole soul went out to him as she lay within his arms. He bent his head—their trembling lips clung together in one long kiss. Then the little golden head drooped upon his breast, and nestled there, as if at last at home. Never before had Enrica's dainty form yielded beneath his touch. Before, he had but clasped her little hand, or pressed her dress, or stolen a hasty kiss on those truant locks of hers. Now Enrica was his own, his very own. The blood shot up like fire over his face. His eyes devoured her. As she lay encircled in his arms, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks. She turned away her face, and feebly tried to loosen herself from him. Nobili only pressed her closer. He would not let her go.

"Do not turn from me, Enrica," he softly murmured. "Would you rob me of the rapture of my first embrace?"

There was a passionate tremor in his voice that re vibrated within her from head to foot. Her flushed cheek grew pale as she listened.

"Heavens! how I have longed for you! How I have longed for you sitting at home! And you so near!"

"And I have longed for you," whispered Enrica, blushing again redder than summer roses.—Enrica was too simple to dissemble.—"O Nobili!"—and she raised her dreamy eyes upward to his, then dropped them again before the fire of his glance—"you cannot tell how lonely I have been. Oh! I have suffered so much; I thought I should have died."

"My own Enrica, that is gone and past. Now we shall never part. I have won you for my wife. Even the marchesa must own this. Last night the old life died out as the smoke from that old tower. To-day you have waked to a new life with me."

Again Nobili's arms stole round her; again he sealed the sacrament of love with a fervid kiss.

Enrica trembled from head to foot—a scared look came over her. The rush of passionate joy, coming upon the terrors of the past night, was more than she could bear. Nobili watched the change.

"Forgive me, love," he said, "I will be calmer. Lay your dear head against me. We will sit together here—under the trees."

"Yes," said Enrica in a faltering voice; "I have so much to say." Then, suddenly recalling the blessing of his presence, a smile stole about her bloodless lips. She gave a happy sigh. "Yes, Nobili—we can talk now without fear. But I can talk only of you. I have no thought but you. I never dreamed of such happiness as this! O Nobili!" And she hid her face in the strong arm entwined about her.

"Speak to me, Enrica; I will listen to you forever."

Enrica clasped his hand, looked at it, sighed, pressed it between both of hers, sighed again, then raised it to her lips.

"Dear hand," she said, "how it is burnt! But for this hand, I should be nothing now but a little heap of ashes in the tower. Nobili"—her tone suddenly changed—"Nobili, I will try to love life now that you have given it to me." Her voice rang out like music, and her telltale eyes caught his, with a glance as passionate as his own. "Count Marescotti," she said, absently, as giving utterance to a passing thought—"Count Marescotti told me, only a week ago, that I was born to be unhappy. He said he read it in my eyes. I believed him then—not now—not now."

Why, she could not have explained, but, as the count's name passed her lips, Enrica was sorry she had mentioned it. Nobili noted this. He gave an imperceptible start, and drew back a little from her.

"Do you know Count Marescotti?" Enrica asked him, timidly.

"I know him by sight," was Nobili's reply. "He is a mad fellow—a republican. Why does he come to Lucca?"

Enrica shook her head.

"I do not know," she answered, still confused.

"Where did you meet him, Enrica?"

She blushed, and dropped her eyes. As she gave him no answer, he asked another question, gazing down upon her earnestly:

"How did Count Marescotti come to know what your eyes said?"

As Nobili spoke, his voice sounded changed. He waited for an answer with a look as if he had been wronged. Enrica's answer did not come immediately. She felt frightened.

"Oh! why," she thought, "had she mentioned Marescotti's name?" Nobili was angry with her—she was sure he was angry with her.

"I met him at my aunt's one evening," she said at last, gathering courage as she stole her little hand into one of his, and knit her fingers tightly within his own. "We went up into the Guinigi Tower together. There were dear old Trenta and Baldassare Lena with us."

"Indeed!" replied Nobili, coldly. "I did not know that the Marchesa Guinigi ever received young men."

As Nobili said this he fixed his eyes upon Enrica's face. What could he read there but assurance of the perfect innocence within? Yet the name of Count Marescotti had grated upon his ear like a discord clashing among sweet sounds. He shook the feeling off, however, for the time. Again he was her gracious lover.

"Tell me, love," he said, drawing Enrica to him, "did you hear my signal last night?—the shot I fired below, out of the woods?"

"Yes, I heard a shot. Something told me it must be you. I thought I should have died when I heard my aunt order Adamo to unloose those dreadful dogs. How did you escape them?"

"The cunning beasts! They were upon my track. How I did it in the darkness I cannot tell, but I managed to scramble down the cliff and to reach the opposite mountain. The chasm was then between us. So the dogs lost the scent upon the rocks, and missed me. I left Lucca almost as soon as you. Trenta told me that the marchesa had brought you here because you would not give me up. Dear heart, how I grieved that I had brought suffering on you!"

He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, then continued:

"As long as it was day, I prowled about under the cliffs in the shadow of the chasm. I watched the stars come out. There was one star that shone brightly above the tower; to me that star was you, Enrica. I could have knelt to it."

"Dear Nobili!" murmured Enrica, softly.

"As I waited there, I saw a great red vapor gather over the battlements. The alarm-bell sounded. I climbed up through the wood, where the rocks are lower, and watched among the shrubs. I saw the marchesa carried out in Adamo's arms. I heard your name, dear love, passed from mouth to mouth. I looked around—you were not there. I understood it all; I rushed to save you."

Again Nobili wound his arms round Enrica and drew her to him with passionate ardor. The thought of Count Marescotti had faded out like a bad dream at daylight.

Enrica's blue eyes dimmed with tears.

"Oh, do not weep, Enrica!" he cried. "Let the past go, love. Did the marchesa think that bolts and bars, and Adamo, and watch-dogs, would keep Nobili from you?" He gave a merry laugh. "I shall not leave Corellia until we are affianced. Fra Pacifico knows it—I told him so last night. Cavaliere Trenta is expected to-day from Lucca. Both will speak to your aunt. One may have done so already, for what I know, for Fra Pacifico had left his house before I rose. He must be here. Is this a time to weep, Enrica?" he asked her tenderly. How comely Nobili looked! What life and joy sparkled in his bright eyes!

"I am very foolish—I hope you will forgive me," was Enrica's answer, spoken a little sadly. Her confidence in herself was shaken, since Count Marescotti's name had jarred between them. "Let us walk a little in the shade."

"Yes. Lean on me, dearest; the morning is delicious. But remember, Enrica, I will have smiles—nothing but smiles."

As Nobili bore her up on his strong arm, pacing up and down among the flowering trees that, bowing in the light breeze, shed gaudy petals at their feet—Nobili looked so strong, and resolute, and bold—his eyes had such a power in them as he gazed down proudly upon her—that the tears which trembled upon Enrica's eyelids disappeared. Nobili's strength came to her as her own strength. She, who had been so crushed and wounded, brought so near to death, needed this to raise her up to life. And now it came—came as she gazed at him.

Yes, she would live—live a new life with him. And Nobili had done it—done it unconsciously, as the sun unfolds the bosom of the rose, and from the delicate bud creates the perfect flower.

Something Nobili understood of what was passing within her, but not all. He had yet to learn the treasures of faith and love shut up in the bosom of that silent girl—to learn how much she loved him—only him. (A new lesson for one who had trifled with so many, and given and taken such facile oaths!)

Neither spoke, but wandered up and down in vague delight.

Why was it that at this moment Nobili's thoughts strayed to Lucca, and to Nera Boccarini?—Nera rose before him, glowing and velvet-eyed, as on that night she had so tempted him. He drove her image from him. Nera was dead to him. Dead?—Fool!—And did he think that any thing can die? Do not our very thoughts rise up and haunt us in some subtile consequence of after-life? Nothing dies—nothing is isolated. Each act of daily intercourse—the merest trifle, as the gravest issue—makes up the chain of life. Link by link that chain draws on, weighted with good or ill, and clings about us to the very grave.

Thinking of Nera, Nobili's color changed—a dark look clouded his ready smile. Enrica asked, "What pains you?"

"Nothing, love, nothing," Nobili answered vaguely, "only I fear I am not worthy of you."

Enrica raised her eyes to his. Such a depth of tenderness and purity beamed from them, that Nobili asked himself with shame, how he could have forgotten her. With this blue-eyed angel by his side it seemed impossible, and yet—

Pressing Enrica's hand more tightly, he placed it fondly on his own. "So small, so true," he murmured, gazing at it as it lay on his broad palm.

"Yes, Nobili, true to death," she answered, with a sigh.

Still holding her hand, "Enrica," he said, solemnly, "I swear to love you and no other, while I live. God is my witness!"

As he lifted up his head in the earnestness with which he spoke, the sunshine, streaming downward, shone full upon his face.

Enrica trembled. "Oh! do not say too much," she cried, gazing up at him entranced.

With that sun-ray upon his face, Nobili seemed to her, at that moment, more than mortal!

"Angel!" exclaimed Count Nobili, wrought up to sudden passion, "can you doubt me?"

Before Enrica could reply, a snake, warmed by the hot sun, curled upward from the terraced wall behind them, where it had basked, and glided swiftly between them. Nobili's heel was on it; in an instant he had crushed its head. But there between them lay the quivering reptile, its speckled scales catching the light. Enrica shrieked and started back.

"O God! what an evil omen!" She said no more, only her shifting color and uneasy eyes told what she felt.

"An evil omen, love!" and Nobili brushed away the snake with his foot into the underwood, and laughed. "Not so. It is an omen that I shall crush all who would part us. That is how I read it."

Enrica shook her head. That snake crawling between them was the first warning to her that she was still on earth. Till then it had seemed to her that Nobili's presence must be like paradise. Now for a moment a terrible doubt crept over her. Could happiness be sad? It must be so, for now she could not tell whether she was sad or happy.

"Oh! do not say too much, dear Nobili," she repeated almost to herself, "or—" Her voice dropped. She looked toward the spot where the snake had fallen, and shuddered.

Nobili did not then reply, but, taking Enrica by the hand, he led her up a flight of steps to a higher terrace, where a cypress avenue threw long shadows across the marble pavement.

"You are mine," he whispered, "mine—as by a miracle!"

There was such rapture in his voice that heaven came down into her heart, and every doubt was stilled.

At this moment Fra Pacifico's towering figure appeared ascending a lower flight of steps toward them, coming from the house. He trod with that firm, grand step churchmen have in common with actors—only the stage upon which each treads is different. Behind Fra Pacifico was the short, plump figure and the white hat of Cavaliere Trenta (a dwarf beside the priest), his rosy face rosier than ever from the rapid drive from Lucca. Trenta's kind eyes twinkled under his white eyebrows as he spied Enrica above, standing side by side with Nobili. How different the dear child looked from that last time he had seen her at Lucca!

Enrica flew down the steps to meet him. She threw her arms round his neck. Count Nobili followed her; he shook hands with the cavaliere and Fra Pacifico.

"His reverence and I thought we should find you two together," said Cavaliere Trenta, with a chuckle. "Count Nobili, I wish you joy."

His voice faltered a little, and a spotless handkerchief was drawn out and called into service. Nobili reddened, then bowed with formal courtesy.

"It is all come right, I see."—Trenta gave a sly glance from one to the other, though the tears were in his eyes.—"I shall live to open the marriage-ball on the first floor of the palace yet. Bagatella! I would have tried to give the dear child to you myself, had I known how much she loved you—but you have taken her. Well, well—possession is better than gift."

"She gave herself to me, cavaliere. Last night's work only made the gift public," was Nobili's reply.

There was a tone of triumph in Nobili's voice as he said this. He stooped and pressed his lips to Enrica's hand. Enrica stood by with downcast eyes—a spray of pink oleander swaying from the terrace-wall in the light breeze above her head, for background.

The old cavaliere nodded his head, round which the little curls set faultlessly under his white hat.

"My dear Count Nobili, permit me to offer my advice. You must settle this matter at once—at once, I say;" and Trenta struck his stick upon the marble balustrade for greater emphasis.

"I quite agree with you," put in Fra Pacifico in his deep voice. "The impression made by your courage last night must not be lost by delay. I never saw an act of greater daring. Had you not come, I should have tried to save Enrica, but I am past my prime; I should have failed."

"You cannot count on the marchesa's gratitude," continued Trenta; "an excellent lady, and my oldest friend, but proud and capricious. You must take her like the wind when it blows—ha! ha! like the wind. I am come here to help you both."

"Cavaliere," said Nobili, turning toward him (his vagrant eyes had wandered off to Enrica, so charming, with the pink oleander and its dark-green leaves waving above her blond head), "do me the favor to ask the Marchesa Guinigi at what hour she will admit me to sign the marriage-contract. I have pressing business that calls me back to Lucca to-day."

"So soon, dear Nobili?" a soft voice whispered at his ear, "so soon?" And then there was a sigh. Surely her paradise was very brief! Enrica had thought in her simplicity that, once met, they two never should part again, but spend the live-long days together side by side among the woods, lingering by flowing streams; or in the rich shade of purple vine-bowers; or in mossy caves, shaded by tall ferns, hid on the mountain-side, and let time and the world roll by. This was the life she dreamed of. Could any grief be there?

"Yes, love," Nobili answered to her question. "I must return to Lucca to-night. I started on the instant, as the cavaliere knows. Before I go, however, all must be settled about our marriage, and the contract signed. I will take no denial."

Nobili spoke with the determination that was in him. Enrica's heart gave a bound. "The contract!" She had never thought of that. "The contract and the marriage!"—"Both close at hand!—Then the life she dreamed of must come true in very earnest!"

The cavaliere looked doubtingly at Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico shrugged his big shoulders, looked back again at Cavaliere Trenta, and smiled rather grimly. There was always a sense of suppressed power, moral and physical, about Fra Pacifico. In conversation he had a way of leaving the burden of small talk to others, and of reserving himself for special occasions; but when he spoke he must be listened to.

"Quick work, my dear count," was all the priest said to Nobili in answer. "Do you think you can insure the marchesa's consent?" Now he addressed the cavaliere.

"Oh, my friend will be reasonable, no doubt. After last night, she must consent." The cavaliere was always ready to put the best construction upon every thing. "If she raises any obstacles, I think I shall be able to remove them."

"Consent!" cried Nobili, fiercely echoing back the word, "she must consent—she will be mad to refuse."

"Well—well—we shall see.—You, Count Nobili, have done all to make it sure. The terms of the contract (I have heard of them from Fra Pacifico) are princely." A look from Count Nobili stopped Trenta from saying more.

"Now, Enrica," and the cavaliere turned and took her arm, "come in and give me some breakfast. An old man of eighty must eat, if he means to dance at weddings."

"You, Nobili, must come with me," said Fra Pacifico, laying his hand on the count's shoulder. "We will wait the cavaliere's summons to return here over a bottle of the marchesa's best vintage, and a cutlet cooked by Maria. She is my best cook; I have one for every day in the week."

So they parted—Trenta with Enrica descending flight after flight of steps, leading from terrace to terrace, down to the villa; Nobili mounting upward to the forest with Fra Pacifico toward Corellia, to await the marchesa's answer.



CHAPTER VI.

THE CONTRACT.

Fra Pacifico, with Adamo and Pipa, had labored ever since-daybreak to arrange the rooms at the villa before the marchesa rose. Pipa had freely used the broom and many pails of water. All the windows were thrown open, and clouds of invisible incense from the flowers without sweetened the fusty rooms.

The villa had not been inhabited for nearly fifty years. It was scantily provided with furniture, but there were chairs and tables and beds, and all the rough necessaries of life. To make all straight, whole generations of beetles had been swept away; and patriarchal spiders, which clung tenaciously to the damp spots on the walls. A scorpion or two had been found, which, firmly resisting to quit the chinks where they had grown and multiplied, had died by decapitation. Fra Pacifico would not have owned it, but he had discovered and killed a nest of black adders that lay concealed, curled up in a curtain.

He had with his own hands, in the early morning, carefully fashioned the spacious sala on the ground-floor to the marchesa's liking. A huge sofa, with a faded amber cover, had been drawn out of a recess, and so placed that the light should fall at her back.—She objected to the sunshine, with true Italian perverseness. Some arm-chairs, once gilt, and still bearing a coronet, were placed in a semicircle opposite. The windows of the sala, and two glass doors of the same size and make, looked east and west; toward the terraces and the garden on one side, and over the cliffs and the chasm to the opposite mountains on the other. The walls were broken by doors of varnished pine-wood. These doors led, on the right, to the chapel, Enrica's bedroom, and many empty apartments; on the left, to the marchesa's suite of rooms, the offices, and the stone corridor which communicated with the now ruined tower. High up on the walls of the sala, two large and roughly-painted frescoes decorated the empty spaces. A Dutch seaport on one side, with sloping roofs and tall gables, bordering a broad river, upon which ships sailed vaguely away into a yellow haze. (Not more vaguely sailing, perhaps, than many human ships, with life-sails set to catch the wind of fortune—ships which never make more way than these painted emblems!) Opposite, a hunting-party of the olden time picnicked in a forest-glade; a brown and red palace in the background, in front lords and ladies lounging on the grass—bundles of satin, velvet, powder, ribbons, feathers, shoulder-knots, ruffles, long-tailed coats, and trains.

A door to the left opened. There was a sound of voices talking.

"My honored marchesa," the cavaliere was heard to say in his most dulcet tones, "in the state of your affairs, you cannot refuse. Why then delay? The day is passing by; Count Nobili is impatient. Let me implore you to lose no more time."

While he was speaking the marchesa entered the sala, passing close under the fresco of the vaguely-sailing ships upon the wall.—Can the marchesa tell whither she is drifting more than these?—She glanced round approvingly, then seated herself upon the sofa. Trenta obsequiously placed a footstool at her feet, a cushion at her back. Even the tempered light, which had been carefully prepared for her by closing the outer wooden shutters, could not conceal how sallow and worn she looked, nor the black circles that had gathered round her eyes. Her dark dress hung about her as if she had suddenly grown thin; her white hands fell listlessly at her side. The marchesa knew that she must consent to Count Nobili's conditions. She knew she must consent this very day. But such a struggle as this knowledge cost her, coming so close upon the agitation of the previous night, was more than even her iron nerves could bear. As she leaned back upon the sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, as was her habit, she felt she could not frame the words with which to answer the cavaliere, were it to save her life.

As for the cavaliere, who had seated himself opposite, his plump little person was so engulfed in an arm-chair, that nothing but his snowy head was visible. This he waved up and down reflectively, rattled his stick upon the floor, and glanced indignantly from time to time at the marchesa. Why would she not answer him?

Meanwhile a little color had risen upon her cheeks. She forced herself to sit erect, arranged the folds of her dark dress, then, in a kind of stately silence, seemed to lend herself to listen to what Trenta might have to urge, as though it concerned her as little as that rose-leaf which comes floating in from the open door and drops at her feet.

"Well, marchesa, well—what is your answer?" asked Trenta, much nettled at her assumed indifference. "Remember that Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico have been waiting for some hours."

"Let Nobili wait," answered the marchesa, a sudden glare darting into her dark eyes; "he is born to wait for such as I."

"Still"—Trenta was both tired and angry, but he dared not show it; only he rattled his stick louder on the floor, and from time to time aimed a savage blow with it against the carved legs of a neighboring table—"still, why do the thing ungraciously? The count's offers are magnificent. Surely in the face of absolute ruin—Fra Pacifico assures me—"

"Let Fra Pacifico mind his own business," was the marchesa's answer.

"Nobili saved Enrica's life last night; that cannot be denied."

"Yes—last night, last night; and I am to be forced and fettered because I set myself on fire! I wish I had perished, and Enrica too!"

A gesture of horror from the cavaliere recalled the marchesa to a sense of what she had uttered.

"And do you deem it nothing, Cesare Trenta, after a life spent in building up the ancient name I bear, that I should be brought to sign a marriage-contract with a peddler's son?" She trembled with passion.

"Yet it must be done," answered Trenta.

"Must be done! Must be done! I would rather die! Mark my words, Cesare. No good will come of this marriage. That young man is weak and dissolute. He is mad with wealth, and the vulgar influence that comes with wealth. As a man, he is unworthy of my niece, who, I must confess, has the temper of an angel."

"I believe that you are wrong, marchesa; Count Nobili is much beloved in Lucca. Fra Pacifico has known him from boyhood. He praises him greatly. I also like him."

"Like him!—Yes, Cesare, you are such an easy fool you like every one. First Marescotti, then Nobili. Marescotti was a gentleman, but this fellow—" She left the sentence incomplete. "Remember my words—you are deceived in him."

"At all events," retorted the cavaliere, "it is too late to discuss these matters now. Time presses. Enrica loves him. He insists on marrying her. You have no money, and cannot give her a portion. My respected marchesa, I have often ventured to represent to you what those lawsuits would entail! Per Bacco! There must be an end of all things—may I call them in?"

The poor old chamberlain was completely exhausted. He had spent four hours in reasoning with his friend. The marchesa turned her head away and shuddered; she could not bring herself to speak the word of bidding. The cavaliere accepted this silence for consent. He struggled out of the ponderous arm-chair, and went out into the garden. There (leaning over the balustrade of the lowest terrace, under the willful branches of a big nonia-tree, weighted with fronds of scarlet trumpet-flowers, that hung out lazily from the wall, to which the stem was nailed) Cavaliere Trenta found Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico awaiting the marchesa's summons. Behind them, at a respectful distance, stood Ser Giacomo, the notary from Corellia. Streamlets pure as crystal ran bubbling down beside them in marble runnels; statues of gods and goddesses balanced each other, on pedestals, at the angles where the steps turned. In front, on the gravel, a pair of peacocks strutted, spreading their gaudy tails in the sunshine.

As the four men entered the sala, they seemed to bring the evening shadows with them. These suddenly slanted across the floor like pointed arrows, darkening the places where the sun had shone. Was it fancy, or did the sparkling fountain at the door, as it fell backward into the marble basin, murmur with a sound like human sighs?

Count Nobili walked first. He was grave and pale. Having made a formal obeisance to the marchesa, his quick eye traveled round in search of Enrica. Not finding her, it settled again upon her aunt. As Nobili entered, she raised her smooth, snake-like head, and met his gaze in silence. She had scarcely bowed, in recognition of his salute. Now, with the slightest possible inclination of her head, she signed to him to take his place on one of the chairs before her.

Fra Pacifico, his full, broad face perfectly unmoved, and Cavaliere Trenta, who watched the scene nervously with troubled, twinkling eyes, placed themselves on either side of Count Nobili. Ser Giacomo had already slipped round behind the sofa, and seated himself at a table placed against the wall, the marriage-contract spread out before him. There was an awkward pause. Then Count Nobili rose, and, in that sweet-toned voice which had fallen like a charm on many a woman's ear, addressed the marchesa.

"Marchesa Guinigi, hereditary Governess of Lucca, and Countess of the Garfagnana, I am come to ask in marriage the hand of your niece, Enrica Guinigi. I desire no portion with her. The lady herself is a portion more than enough for me."

As Nobili ceased speaking, the ruddy color shot across his brow and cheeks, and his eyes glistened. His generous nature spoke in those few words.

"Count Nobili," replied the marchesa, carefully avoiding his eye, which eagerly sought hers—"am I correct in addressing you as Count Nobili?—Pardon me if I am wrong." Here she paused, and affected to hesitate. "Do you bear any other name? I am really quite ignorant of the new titles."

This question was asked with outward courtesy, but there was such a twang of scorn in the marchesa's tone, such an expression of contempt upon her lip, that the old chamberlain trembled on his chair. Even at this last moment it was possible that her infernal pride might scatter every thing to the winds.

"Call me Mario Nobili—that will do," answered the count, reddening to the roots of his chestnut curls.

The marchesa inclined her head, and smiled a sarcastic smile, as if rejoicing to acquaint herself with a fact before unknown. Then she resumed:

"Mario Nobili—you saved my niece's life last night. I am advised that I cannot refuse you her hand in marriage, although—"

Such a black frown clouded Nobili's countenance under the sting of her covert insults that Trenta hastily interposed.

"Permit me to remind you, Marchesa Guinigi, that, subject to your approval, the conditions of the marriage have been already arranged by me and Fra Pacifico, before you consented to meet Count Nobili. The present interview is purely formal. We are met in order to sign the marriage-contract. The notary, I see, is ready. The contract lies before him. May I be permitted to call in the lady?"

"One moment, Cavaliere Trenta," interposed Nobili, who was still standing, holding up his hand to stop him—"one moment. I must request permission to repeat myself the terms of the contract to the Marchesa Guinigi before I presume to receive the honor of her assent."

It was now the marchesa's turn to be discomfited. This was the avowal of an open bargain between Count Nobili and herself. A common exchange of value for value; such as low creatures barter for with each other in the exchange. She felt this, and hated Nobili more keenly for having had the wit to wound her.

"I bind myself, immediately on the signing of the contract, to discharge every mortgage, debt, and incumbrance on these feudal lands of Corellia in the Garfagnana; also any debts in and about the Guinigi Palace and lands, within and without the walls of Lucca. I take upon myself every incumbrance," Nobili repeated emphatically, raising his voice. "My purpose is fully noted in that contract, hastily drawn up at my desire. I also bestow on the marchesa's niece the Guinigi Palace I bought at Lucca—to the marchesa's niece, Enrica Guinigi, and her heirs forever; also a dowry of fifty thousand francs a year, should she survive me."

What is it about gold that invests its possessor with such instant power? Is knowledge power?—or does gold weigh more than brains? I think so. Gold-pieces and Genius weighed in scales would send poor Genius kicking!

From the moment Count Nobili had made apparent the wealth which he possessed, he was master of the situation. The marchesa's quick perception told her so. While he was accepting all her debts, with the superb indifference of a millionaire, she grew cold all over.

"Tell the notary," she said, endeavoring to maintain her usual haughty manner, "to put down that, at my death, I bequeath to my niece all of which I die possessed—the palace at Lucca, and the heirlooms, plate, jewels, armor, and the picture of my great ancestor Castruccio Castracani, to be kept hanging in the place where it now is, opposite the seigneurial throne in the presence-chamber."

Here she paused. The hasty scratch of Ser Giacomo's pen was heard upon the parchment. Spite of her efforts to control her feelings, an ashy pallor spread over the marchesa's face. She grasped her two hands together so tightly that the finger-tips grew crimson; a nervous quiver shook her from head to foot. Cavaliere Trenta, who read the marchesa like a book, watched her in perfect agony. What was going to happen? Would she faint?

"I also bequeath," continued the marchesa, rising from her seat with solemn action, and speaking in a low, hushed voice, her eyes fixed on the floor—"I also bequeath the great Guinigi name and our ancestral honors to my niece—to bear them after my death, together with her husband, then to pass to her eldest child. And may that great name be honored!"

The marchesa reseated herself, raised her thin white hands, and threw up her eyes to heaven. The sacrifice was made!

"May I call in the lady?" again asked the cavaliere, addressing no one in particular.

"I will fetch her in," replied Fra Pacifico, rising from his chair. "She is my spiritual daughter."

No one moved while Fra Pacifico was absent. Ser Giacomo, the notary, dressed in his Sunday suit of black, remained, pen in hand, staring at the wall. Never in his humble life had he formed one of such a distinguished company. All his life Ser Giacomo had heard of the Marchesa Guinigi as a most awful lady. If Fra Pacifico had not caught him within his little office near the cafe, rather than have faced her, Ser Giacomo would have run away.

The door opened, and Enrica stood upon the threshold. There was an air of innocent triumph about her. She had bound a blue ribbon in her golden curls, and placed a rose in the band that encircled her slight waist. Enrica was, in truth, but a common mortal, but she looked so fresh, and bright, and young, with such tender, trusting eyes—there was such an aureole of purity about her, she might have passed for a virgin saint.

As he caught sight of Enrica, the moody expression on Count Nobili's face changed, and broke into a smile. In her presence he forgot the marchesa. Was not such a prize worthy of any battle? What did it signify to him if Enrica were called Guinigi? And as to those tumbledown palaces and heirlooms—what of them? He could buy scores of old palaces any day if he chose. Quickly he stepped forward to meet her as she entered. Fra Pacifico rose, and with great solemnity signed them both with a thrice-repeated cross, then he placed Enrica's hand in Nobili's. The count raised it to his lips, and kissed it fervently.

"My Enrica," he whispered, "this is a glorious day!"

"Oh, it is heavenly!" she answered back, softly.

The marchesa's white face darkened as she looked at Enrica. How dared Enrica be so happy? But she repressed the reproaches that rose to her lips, though her heart swelled to bursting, and the veins in her forehead distended with rage.

"Can Enrica be of my flesh and blood?" exclaimed the marchesa in a low voice to the cavaliere who now stood at her side. "Fool! she believes in her lover! It is a horrible sacrifice! Mark my words—a horrible sacrifice!"

Nobili and Enrica had taken their places behind the notary. The slanting shadows from the open door struck upon them with deeper gloom, and the low murmur of the fountain seemed now to form itself into a moan.

"Do I sign here?" asked Count Nobili.

Ser Giacomo trembled like a leaf.

"Yes, excellency, you sign here," he stammered, pointing to the precise spot; but Ser Giacomo looked so terrified that Nobili, forgetting where he was, laughed out loud and turned to Enrica, who laughed also.

"Stop that unseemly mirth," called out the marchesa from the sofa; "it is most indecent. Let the act that buries a great name at least be conducted with decorum."

"That great name shall not die," spoke the deep voice of Fra Pacifico from the background; "I call a blessing upon it, and upon the present act. The name shall live. When we are dead and rotting in our graves, a race shall rise from them"—and he pointed to Nobili and Enrica—"that shall recall the great legends of the past among the citizens of Lucca."

Fearful of what the marchesa might be moved to reply (even the marchesa, however, had a certain dread of Fra Pacifico when he assumed the dignity of his priestly office), Trenta hurried forward and offered his arm to lead her to the table. She rose slowly to her feet, and cast her eyes round at the group of happy faces about her; all happy save the poor notary, on whose forehead the big drops of sweat were standing.

"Come, my daughter," said Fra Pacifico, advancing, "fear not to sign the marriage-contract. Think of the blessings it will bring to hundreds of miserable peasants, who are suffering from your want of means to help them!"

"Fra Pacifico," exclaimed the marchesa, scarcely able to control herself, "I respect your office, but this is still my house, and I order you to be silent. Where am I to sign?"—she addressed herself to Ser Giacomo.

"Here, madame," answered the almost inaudible voice of the notary.

The marchesa took the pen, and in a large, firm hand wrote her full name and titles. She took a malicious pleasure in spreading them out over the page.

Enrica signed her name, in delicate little letters, after her aunt's. Count Nobili had already affixed his signature. Cavaliere Trenta and the priest were the witnesses.

"There is one request I would make, marchesa," Nobili said, addressing her. "I shall await in Lucca the exact day you may please to name; but, madame"—and with a lover's ardor strong within him, he advanced nearer to where the marchesa stood, and raised his hand as if to touch her—"I beg you not to keep me waiting long."

The marchesa drew back, and contemplated him with a haughty stare. His manner and his request were both alike offensive to her. She would have Count Nobili to understand that she would admit no shadow of familiarity; that her will had been forced, but that in all else she regarded him with the same animosity as before.

Nobili had understood her action and her meaning. "Devil!" he muttered between his clinched teeth. He hated himself for having been betrayed into the smallest warmth. With a flashing eye he turned from the marchesa to Enrica, and whispered in her ear, "My only love, this is more than I can bear!"

Enrica had heard nothing. She had been lost in happy thoughts. In her mind a vision was passing. She was in the close street of San Simone, within its deep shadows that fell so early in the afternoon. Before her stood the two grim palaces, the cavernous doorways and the sculptured arms of the Guinigi displayed on both: one, her old home; the other, that was to be her home. She saw herself go in here, cross the pillared court and mount upward. It was neither day nor night, but all shone with crystal brightness. Then Nobili's voice came to her, and she roused herself.

"My love," he repeated, "I must go—I must go! I cannot trust myself a moment longer with—"

What he had on his lips need not be written. "That lady," he added, hastily correcting himself, and he pointed to the marchesa, who, led by the cavaliere, had reseated herself upon the sofa, looking defiance at everybody.

"I have borne it all for your sake, Enrica." As Nobili spoke, he led her aside to one of the windows. "Now, good-by," and his eyes gathered upon her with passionate fondness; "think of me day and night."

Enrica had not uttered a single word since she first entered, except to Nobili. When he spoke of parting, her head dropped on her breast. A dread—a horror came suddenly upon her. "O Nobili, why must we part?"

"Scarcely to part," he answered, pressing her hand—"only for a few days; then always to be together."

Enrica tried to withdraw her hand from his, but he held it firmly. Then she turned away her head, and big tears rolled down her cheeks. When at last Nobili tore himself from her, Enrica followed him to the door, and, regardless of her aunt's furious glances, she kissed her hand, and waved it after him. There was a world of love in the action.

Spite of his indignation, Count Nobili did not fail duly to make his salutation to the marchesa.

The cavaliere and Fra Pacifico followed him out. Twilight now darkened the garden. The fragrance of the flowers was oppressive in the still air. A star or two had come out, and twinkled faintly on the broad expanse of deep-blue sky. The fountain murmured hollow in the silence of coming night.

"Good-by," said Cavaliere Trenta to Nobili, in his thin voice. "I deeply regret the marchesa's rudeness. She is unhinged—quite unhinged; but her heart is excellent, believe me, most excellent."

"Do not talk of the marchesa," exclaimed Nobili, as he rapidly ascended flight after flight of the terraces. "Let me forget her, or I shall never return to Corellia. Dio Sagrato!" and Nobili clinched his fist. "The marchesa is the most cursed thing God ever created!"



CHAPTER VII.

THE CLUB AT LUCCA.

The piazza at Lucca is surrounded by four avenues of plane-trees. In the centre stands the colossal statue of a Bourbon with disheveled hair, a cornucopia at her feet. Facing the west is the ducal palace, a spacious modern building, in which the sovereigns of Lucca kept a splendid court. Here Cesare Trenta had flourished. Opposite the palace is the Hotel of the Universo, where, as we know, Count Marescotti lodged at No. 4, on the second story. Midway in the piazza a deep and narrow street dives into the body of the city—a street of many colors, with houses red, gray, brown, and tawny, mellowed and tempered by the hand of Time into rich tints that melt into warm shadows. In the background rise domes, and towers, and mediaeval church-fronts, galleried and fretted with arches, pillars, and statues. Here a golden mosaic blazes in the sun, yonder a brazen San Michele with outstretched arms rises against the sky; and, scattered up and down, many a grand old palace-roof uprears its venerable front, with open pillared belvedere, adorned with ancient frescoes. A dull, sleepy old city, Lucca, but full of beauty!

On the opposite side of the piazza, behind the plane-trees, stand two separate buildings, of no particular pretension, other than that both are of marble. One is the theatre, the other is the club. About the club there is some attempt at ornamentation. A wide portico, raised on broad steps, runs along the entire front, supported by Corinthian columns. Under this portico there are orange-trees in green stands, rows of chairs, and tables laid with white table-cloths, plates, and napkins, ready for an al-fresco meal.

It is five o'clock in the afternoon of a splendid day early in October—the next day, in fact, after the contract was signed at Corellia. The hour for the drive upon the ramparts at Lucca is not till six. This, therefore, is the favorite moment for a lounge at the club. The portico is dotted with black coats and hats. Baldassare lay asleep between two chairs. He had arranged himself so as not to crease a pair of new trousers—all'Inglese—not that any Englishman would have worn such garments—they were too conspicuous; but his tailor tells him they are English, and Baldassare willingly believes him.

Baldassare is not a member, but he was admitted to the club by the influence of his patron, the old chamberlain; not without protest, however, with the paternal shop close by. Being there, Baldassare stands his ground in a sullen, silent way. He has much jewelry about him, and wears many showy rings. Trenta says publicly that these rings are false; but Trenta is not at the club to-day.

Lolling back in a chair near Baldassare, with his short legs crossed, and his thumbs stuck into the arm-holes of his coat, is Count Orsetti, smiling, fat, and innocuous. His mother has not yet decided when he is to speak the irrevocable words to Teresa Ottolini. Orsetti is far too dutiful a son to do so before she gives him permission. His mother might change her mind at the last moment; then Orsetti would change his mind, too, and burn incense on other altars. Orsetti has a meerschaum between his teeth, from which he is puffing out columns of smoke. With his head thrown back, he is watching it as it curls upward into the vaulted portico. The languid young man, Orazio Franchi, supported by a stick, is at this moment ascending the steps. To see him drag one leg after the other, one would think his days were numbered. Not at all. Franchi is strong and healthy, but he cultivates languor as an accomplishment. Everybody at Lucca is idle, but nobody is languid, so Franchi has thought fit to adopt that line of distinction. His thin, lanky arms, stooping figure, and a head set on a long neck that droops upon his chest, as well as a certain indolent grace, suit the role. When Franchi had mounted the steps he stood still, heaved an audible sigh of infinite relief, then he sank into a chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Count Malatesta, who was near, leaning against the wall behind, took his cigar from his mouth and laughed.

"Su!—Via!—A little courage to bear the burden of a weary life. What has tired you, Orazio?"

"I have walked from the gate here," answered Orazio, without unclosing his eyes.

"Go on, go on," is Malatesta's reply, "nothing like perseverance. You will lose the use of your limbs in time. It is this cursed air. Per Bacco! it will infect me. Why, oh! why, my penates, was I born at Lucca? It is the dullest place. No one ever draws a knife, or fights a duel, or runs away with his neighbor's wife. Why don't they? It would be excitement. Cospetto! we marry, and are given in marriage, and breed like pigeons in our own holes.—Come, Franchi, have you no news? Wake up, man! You are full of wickedness, spite of your laziness."

Franchi opened his eyes, stretched himself, then yawned, and leaned his head upon his arm that rested on one of the small tables near.

"News?—oh!—ah! There is plenty of news, but I am too tired to tell it."

"News! and I not know it!" cried Count Malatesta.

Several others spoke, then all gathered round Franchi. Count Malatesta slapped Franchi on the back.

"Come, my Trojan, speak. I insist upon it," said Orsetti, rising.

Franchi looked up at him. There was a French cook at Palazzo Orsetti. No one had such Chateau Lafitte. Orazio is far from insensible to these blessings.

"Well, listen. Old Sansovino has returned to his villa at Riparata. His wife is with him."

"His wife?" shouted Orsetti. "Che, che! Any woman but his wife, and I'll believe you. Why, she has lived for the last fifteen years with Duke Bartolo at Venice. Sansovino did not mind the duke, but he charged her with forgery. You remember? About her dower. There was a lawsuit, I think. No, no—not his wife."

"Yes, his wife," answered Franchi, crossing his arms with great deliberation. "The Countess Sansovino was received by her attached husband with bouquets, and a band of music. She drove up to the front-door in gala—in a four-in-hand, a la Daumont. All the tenantry were in waiting—her children too (each by a different father)—to receive her. It was most touching. Old Sansovino did it very well, they tell me. He clasped her to his heart, and melted into tears like a pere noble"

"O Bello!" exclaimed Orsetti, "if old Sansovino cried, it must have been with shame. After this, I will believe any thing."

"The Countess Sansovino is very rich," a voice remarked from the background.

"Well, if she forges, I suppose so," another answered.

"O Marriage! large are the folds of thy ample mantle!" cried Count Malatesta. "Who shall say we are not free in Italy? Now, why do they not do this kind of thing in Lucca? Will any one tell me?—I want to know."

There was a general laugh. "Well, they may possibly do worse," said Franchi, languidly.

"What do you mean?" asked Malatesta, sharply. "Is there more scandal?"

Franchi nodded. A crowd collected round him.

"How the devil, Franchi, do you know so much? Out with it! You must tell us."

"Give me time!—give me time!" was Franchi's answer. He raised his head, and eyed them all with a look of feigned surprise. "Is it possible no one has heard it?"

He was answered by a general protest that nothing had been heard.

"Nobody knows what has happened at the Universo?" Franchi asked with unusual energy.

"No, no!" burst forth from Malatesta and Orsetti. "No, no!" sounded from behind.

"That is quite possible," continued Orazio, with a cynical smile. "To tell you the truth, I did not think you had heard it. It only happened half an hour ago."

"What happened?" asked Count Orsetti.

"A secret commission has been sent from Rome." There was a breathless silence. "The government is alarmed. A secret commission to examine Count Marescotti's papers, and to imprison him."

"That's his uncle's doing—the Jesuit!" cried Malatesta. "This is the second time. Marescotti will be shut up for life."

"Did they catch him?" asked Orsetti.

"No; he got out of an upper window, and escaped across the roof. He had taken all the upper floor of the Universo for his accomplices, who were expected from Paris."

"Honor to Lucca!" Malatesta put in. "We are progressing."

"He's gone," continued Orazio, falling back exhausted on his chair, "but his papers—" Here Franchi thought it right to pause and faintly wink. "I'll tell you the rest when I have smoked a cigar. Give me a light."

"No, no, you must smoke afterward," said Orsetti, rapping him smartly on the back. "Go on—what about Marescotti's papers?"

"Compromising—very," murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of the range of Orsetti's arm.

"The Red count was a communist, we all know," observed Malatesta.

"Mon cher! he was a poet also," responded Orazio. Orazio's languor never interfered with his love of scandal. "When any lady struck his fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet—a damaging practice. These sonnets are a diary of his life. The police were much diverted, I assure you, and so was I. I was in the hotel; I gave them the key to all the ladies."

"You might have done better than waste your fine energies in making ladies names public town-talk," said Orsetti, frowning.

"Well, that's a matter of opinion," replied Orazio, with a certain calm insolence peculiar to him. "I have no ladylove in Lucca."

"Delicious!" broke in Malatesta, brightening up all over. "Don't quarrel over a choice bone.—Who is compromised the most? I'll have her name placarded. Some one must make a row."

"Enrica Guinigi is the most compromised," answered Orazio, striking a match to light his cigar. "Marescotti celebrates her as the young Madonna before the archangel Gabriel visited her. Ha! ha!"

Malatesta gave a low whistle.

"Enrica Guinigi! Is not that the marchesa's niece?" asked Orsetti; "a pretty, fair-faced girl I see driving with her aunt on the ramparts sometimes?"

"The same," answered Malatesta. "But what, in the name of all the devils, could Marescotti know of her? No one has ever spoken to her."

Baldassare now leaned forward and listened; the name of Enrica woke him from his sleep. He hardly dared to join the circle formed round Franchi, for Franchi always snubbed him, and called him "Young Galipots," when Trenta was absent.

"Perhaps Marescotti was the archangel Gabriel himself," said Malatesta, with a leer.

"But answer my question," insisted Orsetti, who, as an avowed suitor of Lucca maidens had their honor and good name at heart. "Don't be a fool, but tell me what you know. This idle story, involving the reputation of a young girl, is shameful. I protest against it!"

"Do you?" sneered Orazio, leaning back, and pulling at his sandy mustache. "That is because you know nothing about it. This Sainte Vierge has already been much talked about—first, with Nobili, who lives opposite—when ma tante was sleeping. Then she spent a day with several men upon the Guinigi Tower, an elegant retirement among the crows. After that old Trenta offered her formally in marriage to Marescotti."