"Shall I send to Lucca for a doctor?" Trenta asked, as soon as he could compose himself.

"As you please. Her condition is very precarious; nothing can be done, however, but to keep her warm. That I see has been attended to. She could swallow nothing, therefore no doctor could help her. With such a pulse, to bleed her would be madness. Her youth may save her. It is plain to me some shock or horror must have struck her down and paralyzed the vital powers. How could this have been?"

The priest stood over her, lost in thought, his bushy eyebrows knit; then he turned to Pipa.

"Has any thing happened, Pipa," he asked, "to account for this?"

"Nothing your reverence," she answered. "I saw the signorina, and spoke to her, not ten minutes before I found her lying in the doorway."

"Had any one seen her?"

"No one."

"I sent a letter to her from Count Nobili. Did you see the messenger arrive?"

"No; I was cleaning in the upper story. He might have come and gone, and I not seen him."

"I heard of no letter," put in the bewildered Trenta. "What letter? No one mentioned a letter."

"Possibly," answered Fra Pacifico, in his quiet, impassible way, "but there was a letter." He turned again to interrogate Pipa. "Then the signorina must have taken the letter herself." Slightly raising his eyebrows, a sudden light came into his eyes. "That letter has done this. What can Nobili have said to her? Did you see any letter beside her, Pipa, when she fell?"

Pipa rose up from the corner where she had been kneeling, raised the sheet, and pointed to a paper clasped in Enrica's hand. As she did so, Pipa pressed her warm lips upon the colorless little hand. She would have covered the hand again to keep it warm, but Fra Pacifico stopped her.

"We must see that letter; it is absolutely needful—I her confessor, and you, cavaliere, Enrica's best friend; indeed, her only friend."

At a touch of his strong hand the letter fell from Enrica's fingers, though they clung to it convulsively.

"Of course we must see the letter," the cavaliere responded with emphasis, waking up from the apathy of grief into which he had been plunged.

Fra Pacifico, casting a look of unutterable pity on Enrica, whose secret it seemed sacrilege to violate while she lay helpless before them, unfolded the letter. He and the cavaliere, standing on tiptoe at his side, his head hardly reaching the priest's elbow, read it together. When Trenta had finished, an expression of horror and rage came into his face. He threw his arms wildly above his head.

"The villain!" he exclaimed, "'Gone forever!'—'You have betrayed me!'—'Cannot marry you!'—'Marescotti!'"

Here Trenta stopped, remembering suddenly what had passed between himself and Count Marescotti at their interview, which he justly considered as confidential. Trenta's first feeling was one of amazement how Nobili had come to know it. Then he remembered what he had said to Baldassare in the street, to quiet him, that "it was all right, and that Enrica would consent to her aunt's commands, and to his wishes."

"Beast!" he muttered, "this is what I get by associating with one who is no gentleman. I'll punish him!"

A blank terror took possession of the cavaliere. He glanced at Enrica, so life-like with her fixed, open eyes, and asked himself, if she recovered, would she ever forgive him?

"I did it for the best!" he murmured, shaking his white head. "God knows I did it for the best!—the dear, blessed one!—to give her a home, and a husband to protect her. I knew nothing about Count Nobili.—Why did you not tell me, my sweetest?" he said, leaning over the bed, and addressing Enrica in his bewilderment.

Alas! the glassy blue eyes stared at him fixedly, the white lips were motionless.

The effect of all this on Fra Pacifico had been very different. Under the strongest excitement, the long habit of his office had taught him a certain outward composure. He was ignorant of much which was known to the cavaliere. Fra Pacifico watched his excessive agitation with grave curiosity.

"What does this mean about Count Marescotti?" he asked, somewhat sternly. "What has Count Marescotti to do with her?"

As he asked this question he stretched his arm authoritatively over Enrica. Protection to the weak was the first thought of the strong man. His great bodily strength had been given him for that purpose, Fra Pacifico always said.

"I offered her in marriage to Count Marescotti," answered the cavaliere, lifting up his aged head, and meeting the priest's suspicious glance with a look of gentle reproach. "What do you think I could have done but this?"

"And Count Marescotti refused her?"

"Yes, he refused her because he was a communist. Nothing passed between them, nothing. They never met but twice, both times in my presence."

Fra Pacifico was satisfied.

"God be praised!" he muttered to himself.

Still holding the letter in his hand, the priest turned toward Enrica. Again he felt her pulse, and passed his broad hand across her forehead.

"No change!" he said, sadly—"no change! Poor child, how she must have suffered! And alone, too! There is some mistake—obviously some mistake."

"No mistake about the wretch having forsaken her," interrupted Trenta, firing up at what he considered Fra Pacifico's ill-placed leniency. "Domine Dio! No mistake about that."

"Yes, but there must be," insisted the other. "I have known Nobili from a boy. He is incapable of such villainy. I tell you, cavaliere, Nobili is utterly incapable of it. He has been deceived. By-and-by he will bitterly repent this," and Fra Pacifico held up the letter.

"Yes," answered Trenta, bitterly—"yes, if she lives. If he has killed her, what will his repentance matter?"

"Better wait, however, until we know more. Nobili may be hot-headed, vain, and credulous, but he is generous to a fault. If he cannot justify himself, why, then"—the priest's voice changed, his swarthy face flushed with a dark glow—"I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—charity demands this—but if Nobili cannot justify himself"—(the cavaliere made an indignant gesture)—"leave him to me. You shall be satisfied, cavaliere. God deals with men's souls hereafter, but he permits bodily punishment in this world. Nobili shall have his, I promise you!"

Fra Pacifico clinched his huge fist menacingly, and dealt a blow in the air that would have felled a giant.

Having given vent to his feelings, to the unmitigated delight of the cavaliere, who nodded and smiled—for an instant forgetting his sorrow, and Enrica lying there—Fra Pacifico composed himself.

"The marchesa must see that letter," he said, in his usual manner. "Take it to her, cavaliere. Hear what she says."

The cavaliere took the letter in silence. Then he shrugged his shoulders despairingly.

"I must go now to Corellia. I will return soon. That Enrica still lives is full of hope." Fra Pacifico said this, turning toward the little bed with its modest shroud of white linen curtains. "But I can do nothing. The feeble spark of life that still lingers in her frame would fly forever if tormented by remedies. I have hope in God only." And he gave a heavy sigh.

Before Fra Pacifico departed, he took some holy water from a little vessel near the bed, and sprinkled it upon Enrica. He ordered Pipa to keep her very warm, and to watch every breath she drew. Then he glided from the room with the light step of one well used to sickness.

Cavaliere Trenta followed him slowly. He paused motionless in the open doorway, his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, fixed on Enrica—the fatal letter in his hand. At length he tore himself away, closed the door, and, crossing the sala, knocked at the door of the marchesa's apartment.

* * * * *

In the gray of the early morning of the second day, just as the sun rose and cast a few straggling gleams into the room, Enrica called faintly to Pipa. She knew Pipa when she came. It seemed as if Enrica had waked out of a long, deep sleep. She felt no pain, but an excessive weakness. She touched her forehead and her hair. She handled the sheets—then extended both her hands to Pipa, as if she had been buried and asked to be raised up again. She tried to sit up, but—she fell back upon her pillow. Pipa's arms were round her in an instant. She put back the long hair that fell upon Enrica's face, and poured into her mouth a few drops of a cordial Fra Pacifico had left for her. Pipa dared not speak—Pipa dared not breathe—so great was her joy. At length she ventured to take one of Enrica's hands in hers, pressed it gently and said to her in a low voice:

"You must be very quiet. We are all here."

Enrica looked up at Pipa, surprised and frightened; then her eyes wandered round in search of something. She was evidently dwelling upon some idea she could not express. She raised her hand, opened it slowly, and gazed at it. Her hand was empty.

"Where is—?" Enrica asked, in a voice like a sigh—then she stopped, and gazed up again distressfully into Pipa's face. Pipa knew that Count Nobili's letter had been taken by Fra Pacifico. Now she bent over Enrica in an agony of fear lest, when her reason came and she missed that letter, she should sink back again and die.

With the sound of her own voice all came back to Enrica in an instant. She closed her eyes, and longed never to open them again! "Gone! gone! forever!" sounded in her ears like a rushing of great waters. Then she lay for a long time quite still. She could not bear to speak to Pipa. His name—Nobili's name—was sacred. If Pipa knew what Nobili had done, she might speak ill of him. That Enrica could not bear. Yet she should like to know who had taken his letter.

Her brain was very weak, yet it worked incessantly. She asked herself all manner of questions in a helpless way; but as her fluttering pulses settled, and the blood returned to its accustomed channels, faintly coloring her cheek, the truth came to her. Insulted!—abandoned!—forgotten! She thought it all over bit by bit. Each thought as it rose in her mind seemed to freeze the returning warmth within her. That letter—oh, if she could only find that letter! She tried to recall every phrase and put a sense to it. How had she deceived him? What could Nobili mean? What had she done to be talked of in Lucca? Marescotti—who was he? At first she was so stunned she forgot his name; then it came to her. Yes, the poet—Marescotti—Trenta's friend—who had raved on the Guinigi Tower. What was he to her? Marry Marescotti! Oh! who could have said it?

Gradually, as Enrica's mind became clearer, lying there so still with no sound but Pipa's measured breathing, she felt to its full extent how Nobili had wronged her. Why had he not come himself and asked her if all this were true? To leave her thus forever! Without even asking her—oh, how cruel! She believed in him, why did he not believe in her? No one had ever yet told her a lie; within herself she felt no power of deceit. She could not understand it in others, nor the falseness of the world. Now she must learn it! Then a great longing and tenderness came over her. She loved Nobili still. Even though he had smitten her so sorely, she loved him—she loved him, and she forgave him! But stronger and stronger grew the thought, even while these longings swept over her like great waves, that Nobili was unworthy of her. Should she love him less for that? Oh, no! He was unworthy of her—yet she yearned after him. He had left her—but in her heart Nobili should forever sit enthroned—and she would worship him!

And they had been so happy, so more than happy—from the first moment they had met—and he had shattered it! Oh, his love for her was dead and buried out of sight! What was life to her without Nobili? Oh, those forebodings that had clung about her from the very moment he had left Corellia! Now she could understand them. Never to see him again!—was it possible? A great pity came upon her for herself. No one, she was sure, could ever have suffered like her—no one—no one. This thought for some time pursued her closely. There was a terrible comfort in it. Alas! all her life would be suffering now!

As Enrica lay there, her face turned toward the wall, and her eyes closed (Pipa watching her, thinking she had dozed), suddenly her bosom heaved. She gave a wild cry. The pent-up tears came pouring down her cheeks, and sob after sob shook her from head to foot.

This burst of grief saved her—Fra Pacifico said so when he came down later. "Death had passed very near her," he said, "but now she would recover."



CHAPTER IV.

FRA PACIFICO AND THE MARCHESA.

On the evening of that day the marchesa was in her own room, opening from the sala. The little furniture the room contained was collected around the marchesa, forming a species of oasis on the broad desert of the scagliola floor. A brass lamp, placed on a table, formed the centre of this habitable spot. The marchesa sat in deep shadow, but in the outline of her tall, slight figure, and in the carriage of her head and neck, there was the same indomitable pride, courage, and energy, as before. A paper lay on the ground near her; it was Nobili's letter. Fra Pacifico sat opposite to her. He was speaking. His deep-set luminous eyes were fixed on the marchesa. His straight, coarse hair was pushed up erect upon his brow; there was at all times something of a mane about it. His cassock sat loosely about his big, well-made limbs; his priestly stock was loosed, showing the dark skin of his throat and chin. In the turn of his eye, in the expression of his countenance, there were anxiety, restlessness, and distrust.

"Yes—Enrica has recovered for the present," he was saying, "but such an attack saps and weakens the very issues of life. Count Nobili, if not brought to reason, would break her heart." She was obstinately silent. The balance of her mind was partially upset. "'I shall never see Nobili again,' was all she would say to me. It is a pity, I think, that you sent the cavaliere away to Lucca. Enrica might have opened her mind to him."

As he spoke, Fra Pacifico crossed one of his legs over the other, and arranged the heavy folds of his cassock over his knees.

"And who says Enrica shall not see Nobili again?" asked the marchesa, defiantly. "Holy saints! That is my affair. I want no advice. My honor is now as much concerned in the completion of this marriage as it was before to prevent it. The contract has been signed in my presence. The money agreed upon has been paid over to me. The marriage must take place. I have sent Trenta to Lucca to make preliminary arrangements."

"I rejoice to hear it," answered Fra Pacifico, his countenance brightening. "There must be some extraordinary mistake. The cavaliere will explain it. Some enemies of your family must have misled Count Nobili, especially as there was a certain appearance of concealment respecting Count Marescotti. It will all come right. I only feared lest the language of that letter would have, in your opinion, rendered the marriage impossible."

"That letter does not move me in the least," answered the marchesa haughtily, speaking out of the shadow. She gave the letter a kick, sending it farther from her. "I care neither for praise nor insult from such a fellow. He is but an instrument in my hand. He has, however, justified my bad opinion of him. I am glad of that. Do you imagine, my father," she added, leaning forward, and bringing her head for an instant within the circle of the light—"do you imagine any thing but absolute necessity would have induced me to allow Count Nobili ever to enter my presence?"

"I am bound to tell you that your pride is un-Christian, my daughter." Fra Pacifico spoke with warmth. "I cannot permit such language in my presence."

The marchesa waved her hand contemptuously, then contemplated him, a smile upon her face.

"I have long known Count Nobili. He has the faults of his age. He is impulsive—vain, perhaps—but at the same time he is loyal and generous. He was not himself when he wrote that letter. There is a passionate sorrow about it that convinces me of this. He has been misled. The offer you sanctioned of Enrica's hand to Count Marescotti, has been misrepresented to him. Undoubtedly Nobili ought to have sought an explanation before he left Lucca; but, the more he loved Enrica, the more he must have suffered before he could so address her."

"You justify Count Nobili, then, my father, not only for abandoning my niece, but for endeavoring to blast her character? Is this your Christianity?" The marchesa asked this question with bitter scorn; her keen eyes shone mockingly out of the darkness. "I told you what he was, remember. I have some knowledge of him and of his father."

"My daughter, I do not defend him. If need be, I have sworn to punish him with my own hand. But, until I know all the circumstances, I pity him; I repeat, I pity him. Some powerful influence must have been brought to bear upon Nobili. It may have been a woman."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the marchesa, contemptuously. "You admit, then, Nobili has a taste for women?"

Fra Pacifico rose suddenly from his chair. An expression of deep displeasure was on his face, which had grown crimson under the marchesa's taunts.

"I desire no altercation, marchesa, nor will I permit you to address such unseemly words to me. What I deem fitting I shall say, now and always. It is my duty. You have called me here. What do you want? How can I help you? In all things lawful I am ready to do so. Nay, I will take the whole matter on myself if you desire."

As he spoke, Fra Pacifico stooped and raised Nobili's crumpled letter from the floor. He spread it out open on the table. The marchesa motioned to him to reseat himself. He did so.

"What I want?" she said, taking up the priest's words. "I will tell you. When I bring Count Nobili here"—the marchesa spoke very slowly, and stretched out her long fingers, as though she held him already in her grasp—"when I bring Count Nobili here, I want you to perform the marriage ceremony. It must take place immediately. Under the circumstances the marriage had better be private."

"I shall not perform the ceremony," answered Fra Pacifico, his full, deep voice ringing through the room, "at your bidding only. Enrica must also consent. Enrica must consent in my presence."

As the light of the lamp struck upon Fra Pacifico, the lines about his mouth deepened, and that look of courage and of command the people of Corellia knew so well was marked upon his countenance. A rock might have been moved, but not Fra Pacifico.

"Enrica shall obey me!" cried the marchesa. Her temper was rising beyond control at the idea of any opposition at such a critical moment. She had made her plan, settled it with Trenta; her plan must be carried out. "Enrica shall obey me," she repeated. "Enrica will obey me unless instigated by you, Fra Pacifico."

"My daughter," replied the priest, "if you forget the respect due to my office, I shall leave you."

"Pardon me, my father," and the marchesa bowed stiffly; "but I appeal to your justice. Can I allow that reprobate to break my niece's heart?—to tarnish her good name? If there were a single Guinigi left, he would stab Nobili like a dog! Such a fellow is unworthy the name of gentleman. Marriage alone can remove the stain he has cast upon Enrica. It is no question of sentiment. The marriage is essential to the honor of my house. Enrica must be called Countess Nobili, whether Nobili pleases it or not. Else how can I keep his money? And without his money—" She paused suddenly. In the warmth of speech the marchesa had been actually led into the confession that Nobili was necessary to her "I have the contract," she added. "Thank Heaven, I have the contract! Nobili is legally bound by the contract."

"Yes, that may be," answered Fra Pacifico, reflectively, "if you choose to force him. But I warn you that I will put no violence on Enrica's feelings. She must decide for herself."

"But if Enrica still loves him," urged the marchesa, determined if possible to avoid an appeal to her niece—"if Enrica still loves him, as you assure me she does, may we not look upon her acquiescence as obtained?"

Fra Pacifico shook his head. He was perfectly unmoved by the marchesa's violence.

"Life, honor, position, reputation, all rest on this marriage. I have accepted Count Nobili's money; Count Nobili must accept my niece."

"Your niece must nevertheless consent. I can permit no other arrangement. Then you have to find Count Nobili. He must voluntarily appear at the altar."

Fra Pacifico turned his resolute face full upon the marchesa. Her whole attitude betrayed intense excitement.

"Your niece must consent, Count Nobili must appear voluntarily before the altar, else the Church cannot sanction the union. It would be sacrilege. How do you propose to overcome Count Nobili's refusal?"

"By the law!" exclaimed the marchesa, imperiously.

Fra Pacifico turned aside his head to conceal a smile. The law had not hitherto favored the marchesa. Her constant appeal to the law had been the principal cause of her present troubles.

"By the law," the marchesa repeated. Her sallow face glowed for a moment. "Surely, Fra Pacifico—surely you will not oppose me? You talk of the Church. The Church, indeed! Did not the wretch sign the marriage-contract in your presence? The Church must enable him to complete his contract. In your presence too, as priest and civil delegate; and you talk of sacrilege, my father! Che! che! Dio buono!" she exclaimed, losing all self-control in the conviction her own argument brought to her—"Fra Pacifico, you must be mad!"

"I only ask for Enrica's consent," answered the priest. "That given, if Count Nobili comes, I will consent to marry them."

"Count Nobili—he shall come—never fear," and the marchesa gave a short, scornful laugh. "After I have been to Lucca he will come. I shall have done my duty. It is all very well," added the marchesa, loftily, "for low people to pair like animals, from inclination. Such vulgar motives have no place in the world in which I live. Persons of my rank form alliances among themselves from more elevated considerations; from political and prudential motives; for the sake of great wealth when wealth is required; to shed fresh lustre on an historic name by adding to it the splendor of another equally illustrious. My own marriage was arranged for this end. Again I remind you, my father, that nothing but necessity would have forced me to permit a usurer's son to dare to aspire to the hand of my niece. It is a horrible degradation—the first blot on a spotless escutcheon."

"Again I warn you, my daughter, such pride is unseemly. Summon Enrica at once. Let us hear what she says."

The marchesa drew back into the shadow, and was silent. As long as she could bring her battery of arguments against Fra Pacifico, she felt safe. What Enrica might say, who could tell? One word from Enrica might overturn all her subtle combinations. That Fra Pacifico should assist her was indispensable. Another priest, less interested in Enrica, might, under the circumstances, refuse to unite them. Even if that difficulty could be got over, the marchesa was fully alive to the fact that a painful scene would probably occur—such a scene as ought not to be witnessed by a stranger. Hence her hesitation in calling Enrica.

During this pause Fra Pacifico crossed his arms upon his breast and waited in silence.

"Let Enrica come," said the marchesa at last; "I have no objection." She threw herself back on her seat, and doggedly awaited the result.

Fra Pacifico rose and opened a door on the other side of the room, communicating with the vaulted passage which had connected the villa with the tower.

"Who is there?" he called. (Bells were a luxury unknown at Corellia.)

"I," answered Angelo, running forward, his eyes gleaming like two stars. Angelo sometimes acted as acolyte to Fra Pacifico. Angelo was proud to show his alacrity to his reverence, who had often cuffed him for his mischievous pranks; specially on one occasion, when Fra Pacifico had found him in the act of pushing Gigi stealthily into the marble basin of the fountain, to see if, being small, Gigi would swim like the gold-fish.

"Go to the Signorina Enrica, Angelo, and tell her that the marchesa wants her."

As long as Enrica was ill, Fra Pacifico went freely in and out of her room; now that she was recovered, and had risen from her bed, it was not suitable for him to seek her there himself.



CHAPTER V.

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE?

When Angelo knocked at Enrica's door, Pipa, who was with her, opened it, and gave her Fra Pacifico's message. The summons was so sudden Enrica had no time to think, but a wild, unmeaning delight possessed her. It was so rare for her aunt to send for her she must be going to tell her something about Nobili. With his name upon her lips, Enrica started up from the chair on which she had been half lying, and ran toward the door.

"Softly, softly, my blessed angel!" cried Pipa, following her with outstretched arms as if she were a baby taking its first steps. "You were all but dead this morning, and now you run like little Gigi when I call to him."

"I can walk very well, Pipa." Enrica opened the door with feverish haste. "I must not keep my aunt waiting."

"Let me put a shawl round you," insisted kind Pipa. "The evening is fresh."

She wrapped a large white shawl about her, that made Enrica look paler and more ghost-like than before.

"Nobody loves me like you, Pipa—nobody—dear Pipa!"

Enrica threw her soft arms around Pipa as she said this. She felt so lonely the tears came into her eyes, already swollen with excessive weeping.

"Who knows?" was Pipa's grave reply. "It is a strange world. You must not judge a man always by what he does."

Enrica gave a deep sigh. She had hurried out of her room into the sala with a headlong impulse to rush to her aunt. Now she dreaded what her aunt might have to say to her. The little strength she had suddenly left her. The warm blood that had mounted to her head chilled within her veins. For a few moments she leaned against Pipa, who watched her with anxious eyes. Then, disengaging herself from her, she trod feebly across the floor. The sala was in darkness. Enrica stretched out her hands before her to feel for the door. When she had found it she stopped terrified. What was she about to hear? The deep voice of Fra Pacifico was audible from within. Enrica placed her hand upon the handle of the door—then she withdrew it. Without the autumn wind moaned round the corners of the house. How it must roar in the abyss under the cliffs! Enrica thought. How dark it must be down there in the blackness of the night! Like letters written in fire, Nobili's words rose up before her—"I am gone from you forever!" Oh! why was she not dead?—Why was she not lying deep below, buried among the cold rocks?—Enrica felt very faint. A groan escaped her.

Fra Pacifico, accustomed to listen to the almost inaudible sounds of the sick and the dying, heard it.

The door opened. Enrica found herself within the room.

"Enrica," said the marchesa, addressing her blandly (did not all now depend upon her?)—"Enrica, you look very pale."

She made no reply, but looked round vacantly. The light of the lamp, coming suddenly out of the darkness, the finding herself face to face with the marchesa, dazzled and alarmed her.

Fra Pacifico took both Enrica's hands in his, drew an arm-chair forward, and placed her in it.

"Enrica, I have sent for you to ask you a question," the marchesa spoke.

At the sound of her aunt's voice, Enrica shuddered visibly. Was it not, after all, the marchesa's fault that Nobili had left her? Why had the marchesa thrown her into Count Marescotti's company? Why had the marchesa offered her in marriage to Count Marescotti without telling her? At this moment Enrica loathed her. Something of all this passed over her pallid face as she turned her eyes beseechingly toward Fra Pacifico. The marchesa watched her with secret rage.

Was this silly, love-sick child about to annihilate the labors of her life? Was this daughter of her husband's cousin, Antonio—a collateral branch—about to consign the Guinigi name to the tomb? She could have lifted up her voice and cursed her where she stood.

"Enrica, I have sent for you to ask you a question." Spite of her efforts to be calm, there was a strange ring in her voice that made Enrica look up at her. "Enrica, do you still love Count Nobili?"

"This is not a fair question," interrupted Fra Pacifico, coming to the rescue of the distressed Enrica, who sat speechless before her terrible aunt. "I know she still loves him. The love of a heart like hers is not to be destroyed by such a letter as that, and the unjust accusations it contains."

Fra Pacifico pointed with his finger to Nobili's letter lying where he had placed it on the table. Seeing the letter, Enrica started back and shivered.

"Is it not so, Enrica?"

The little blond head and the sad blue eyes bowed themselves gently in response. A faint smile flitted across Enrica's face. Fra Pacifico had spoken all her mind, which she in her weakness could not have done, especially with her aunt's dark eyes riveted upon her.

"Then you still love Count Nobili?" The marchesa accentuated each word with bitter emphasis.

"I do," answered Enrica, faintly.

"If Count Nobili returns here, will you marry him?"

As the marchesa spoke, Enrica trembled like a leaf. "What was she to answer?" The little composure she had been able to assume utterly forsook her. She who had believed that nothing was left but to die, was suddenly called upon to live!

"O my aunt," Enrica cried, springing to her feet, "how can I look Nobili in the face after that letter? He thinks I have deceived him."

Enrica stopped; the words seemed to choke her. With an imploring look, she turned toward Fra Pacifico. Without knowing what she did Enrica flung herself on the floor at his feet; she clasped his knees—she turned her beseeching eyes into his.

"O my father, help me! Nobili is my very life. How can I refuse what is my very life? When Nobili left me, my first thought was to die!"

"Surely, my daughter, not by a violent death?" asked Fra Pacifico, stooping over her.

"Yes, yes," and Enrica wrung her hands, "yes, I would have done it—I could not bear to live without him."

A look of sorrow and reproach darkened Fra Pacifico's brow. He crossed himself. "God be praised," he exclaimed, "you were saved from that wickedness!"

"My father"—Enrica extended her arms toward him—"I implore you, for the love of Jesus, let me enter a convent!"

In these few and simple words Enrica had tried all her powers of persuasion. The words were addressed to the priest; but her blue eyes, filled with tears, gathered themselves upon the marchesa imploringly. Enrica awaited her fate in silence. The priest rose and gently replaced her on her chair. All the benevolence of his manly nature was called forth. He cast a searching glance at the marchesa. Nothing betrayed her feelings.

"Calm yourself, Enrica," Fra Pacifico said, soothingly. "No one seeks to hurry or to force you. But I could not for a moment sanction your entering a convent. In your present state of mind it would be an unholy and an unnatural act."

Although outwardly unmoved, never in her life had the marchesa felt such exultation. Had Fra Pacifico seconded Enrica's proposal to enter a convent, all would have been lost! Still nothing was absolutely decided. It was possible Fra Pacifico might yet frustrate her plans. She ventured another question.

"If Count Nobili meets you at the altar, you will not then refuse to marry him?"

There was an imperceptible tremor in the marchesa's voice. The suspense was becoming intolerable to her.

"Refuse to marry him? Refuse Nobili? No, no, I can refuse Nobili nothing," answered Enrica, dreamily. "But he will not come!—he is gone forever!"

"He will come," insisted the marchesa, pushing her advantage skillfully.

"But will he love me?" asked the tender young voice. "Will he believe that I love him? Oh, tell me that!—Father Pacifico, help me! I cannot think." Enrica pressed her hands to her forehead. She had suffered so much, now that the crisis had come she was stunned, she had no power to decide. "Dare I marry him?—Ought we to part forever?" A flush gathered on her cheek, an ineffable longing shone from her eyes. More than life was in the balance—not only to Enrica, but to the marchesa—the marchesa, who, wrapped within the veil of her impenetrable reserve, breathlessly awaited, an answer.

Fra Pacifico showed unmistakable signs of agitation. He rose from his chair, and for some minutes strode rapidly up and down the room, the floor creaking under his heavy tread. The life of this fragile girl lay in his hands. How could he resist that pleading look? Enrica had done nothing wrong. Was Enrica to suffer—die, perhaps—because Nobili had wrongfully accused her? Fra Pacifico passed his large, muscular hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin, then stopped to gaze upon her. Her lips were parted, her eyes dilated to their utmost limit.

"My child," he said at last, laying his hand upon her head with fatherly tenderness—"my child, if Count Nobili returns here, you will be justified in marrying him."

Enrica sank back and closed her eyes. A great leap of joy overwhelmed her. She dared not question her happiness. To behold Nobili once more—only to behold him—filled her with rapture.

"What is your answer, Enrica? I must hear your answer from yourself."

The marchesa spoke out of the darkness. She shrank from allowing Fra Pacifico to scrutinize the exultation marked on her every feature.

"My aunt, if Nobili comes here to claim me, I will marry him," answered Enrica, more firmly. "But stop"—her eye had meanwhile traveled to the letter still lying on the table—a horrible doubt crossed her mind. "Will Nobili know that I am not what he says there—in that letter?"

Enrica could bring herself to say no more. She longed to ask all that had happened about Count Marescotti, and how her name had been mixed up with his, but the words refused to come.

"Leave that to me," answered the marchesa, imperiously. "If Count Nobili comes to marry you, is not that proof enough that he is satisfied?"

Enrica felt that it must be so. A wild joy possessed her. This joy was harder to bear than the pain. Enrica was actually sinking under the hope that Nobili might return to her!

Fra Pacifico noticed the gray shadow that was creeping over her face.

"Enrica must go at once to her room," he said abruptly, "else I cannot answer for the consequences. Her strength is overtaxed."

As he spoke, Fra Pacifico hastily opened the door leading into the sala. He took Enrica by the hand and raised her. She was perfectly passive. The marchesa rose also; for the first time she came into the full light of the lamp. Enrica stooped and kissed her hand mechanically.

"My niece, you may prepare for your approaching marriage. Count Nobili will be here shortly—never fear."

The marchesa's manner was strange, almost menacing. Fra Pacifico led Enrica across the sala to her own door. When he returned, the marchesa was again reading Count Nobili's letter.

"A love-match in the Guinigi family!" She was laughing with derision. "What are we coming to?"

She tore the letter into innumerable fragments.

"My father, I shall leave for Lucca early to-morrow. You must look after Enrica. I am satisfied with what has passed."

"God send we have done right!" answered the priest, gloomily. "Now at least she has a chance of life."

"Adieu, Fra Pacifico. When next we meet it will be at the marriage."

Fra Pacifico withdrew. Had he done his duty?—Fra Pacifico dared not ask himself the question.



CHAPTER VI.

THE CHURCH AND THE LAW.

Ten days after the departure of the marchesa, Fra Pacifico received the following letter:

REVEREND AND ESTEEMED FATHER: I have put the matter of Enrica's marriage into the hands of the well-known advocate, Maestro Guglielmi, of Lucca. He at once left for Rome. By extraordinary diligence he procured a summons for Count Nobili to appear within fifteen days before the tribunal, to answer in person for his breach of marriage-contract—unless, before the expiration of that time, he should make the contract good by marriage. The citation was left with the secretary at Count Nobili's own house. Maestro Guglielmi also informed the secretary, by my order, that, in default of his—Count Nobili's—appearance, a detailed account of the whole transaction with my niece, and of other transactions touching Count Nobili's father, known to me—of which I have informed Maestro Guglielmi—would be published—upon my authority—in every newspaper in all the cities throughout Italy, with such explanations and particulars as I might see fit to insert. Also that the name of Count Nobili, as a slanderer and a perjurer, should be placarded on all the spare walls of Lucca, at Florence, and throughout Tuscany. The secretary denies any knowledge of his master's present address. He declared that he was unable, therefore, to communicate with him.

In the mean time a knowledge of the facts has spread through this city. The public voice is with us to a man. Once more the citizens have rallied round the great Guinigi name. Crowds assemble daily before Count Nobili's palace. His name is loudly execrated by the citizens. Stones have been thrown, and windows broken; indeed, there are threats of burning the palace. The authorities have not interfered. Count Nobili has now, I hear, returned privately to Lucca. He dares not show himself, or he would be stabbed; but Count Nobili's lawyer has had a conference with Maestro Guglielmi. Cavaliere Trenta insisted upon being present. This was against my will. Cavaliere Trenta always says too much. Maestro Guglielmi gave Count Nobili's lawyer three days to decide. At the expiration of that time Signore Guglielmi met him again. Count Nobili's lawyer declared that with the utmost difficulty he had prevailed upon his client to make good the contract by the religious ceremony of marriage. Let every thing therefore be ready for the ceremony. This letter is private. You will say nothing further to my niece than that Count Nobili will arrive at Corellia at two o'clock the day after to-morrow to marry her. Farewell.

Your friend and well-wisher,

"MARCHESA GUINIGI."

The morning of the third day rose gray and chill at Corellia. Much rain had fallen during the night, and a damp mist streamed up from the valleys, shutting out the mighty range of mountains. In the plains of Pisa and Florence the October sun still blazed glorious as ever on the lush grass and flowery meadows—on the sluggish streams and the rich blossoms. There, the trees still rustled in green luxuriance, to soft breezes perfumed with orange-trees and roses. But in the mountain-fastnesses of the Apennines autumn had come on apace. Such faded leaves as clung to the shrubs about the villa were drooping under the weight of the rain-drops, and a few autumnal flowers that still lit up the broad borders lay prostrate on the earth. Each tiny stream and brawling water-course—even mere little humble rills that dried up in summer—now rushed downward over rocks and stones blackened with moss, to pour themselves into the river Serchio. In the forest the turf was carpeted with yellow leaves, carried hither and thither by the winds. The stems and branches of the chestnuts ranged themselves, tier above tier, like silver pillars, against the red sandstone of the rocks. The year was dying out, and with the year all Nature was dying out likewise.

Within the villa a table was spread in the great sala, with wine and such simple refreshments as the brief notice allowed. As the morning advanced, clouds gathered more thickly over the heavens. The gloomy daylight coming in at the doors, and through the many windows, caught up no ray within. The vaguely-sailing ships painted upon the wall, destined never to find a port in those unknown seas for which their sails were set—and that exasperating company opposite, that through all changes of weal or woe danced remorselessly under the greenwood—were shrouded in misty shadows.

Not a sound broke the silence—nothing save the striking of the clock at Corellia, bringing with it visions of the dark old church—the kneeling women—and the peace of God within. Even Argo and his friends—Juno and Tuzzi, and the bull-dog—were mute.

About twelve o'clock the marchesa arrived from Lucca. In her company came the Cavaliere Trenta and Maestro Guglielmi. Fra Pacifico was in waiting. He received them with grave courtesy. Adamo, arrayed by Pipa in his Sunday clothes, with a flower behind his ear, and Silvestro, stood uncovered at the entrance. Once, and once only, Silvestro abstained from addressing his mistress with his usual question about her health.

Maestro Guglielmi was formally presented to Fra Pacifico by the punctilious cavaliere, now restored to his usual health and spirits. The cavaliere had arrayed himself in his official uniform—dark-purple velvet embroidered with gold. Not having worn the uniform, however, for more than twenty years, the coat was much too small for him. In his hand he carried a white staff of office. This served him as a stick. Coming up from Lucca, the cavaliere had reflected that on him solely must rest the care of imparting some show of dignity to the ceremony about to take place. He resolved that he would be equal to the occasion, whatever might occur.

There was a strange hush upon each one of the little group met in the sala. Each was busy with his own thoughts. The marriage about to take place was to the marchesa the resurrection of the Guinigi name. To Fra Pacifico it was the possible rescue of Enrica from a life of suffering, perhaps an early death. To Guglielmi it was the triumph of the keen lawyer, who had tracked and pursued his prey until that prey had yielded. To the cavaliere it was simply an act of justice which Count Nobili owed to Enrica, after the explanations he (Trenta) had given to him through his lawyer, respecting Count Marescotti—such an act of justice as the paternal government of his master the Duke of Lucca would have forced, upon the strength of his absolute prerogative, irrespective of law. The only person not outwardly affected was the marchesa. The marchesa had said nothing since her arrival, but there was a haughty alacrity of step and movement, as she walked down the sala toward the door of her own apartment, that spoke more than words.

No sooner had the sound of her closing door died away in the echoes of the sala than Trenta, with forward bows both to Fra Pacifico and the lawyer, requested permission to leave them, in order to visit Enrica. Guglielmi and Fra Pacifico were now alone. Guglielmi gave a cautious glance round, then walked up to the table, and poured out a tumbler of wine, which he swallowed slowly. As he did so, he was engaged in closely scrutinizing Fra Pacifico, who, full of anxiety as to what was about to happen, stood lost in thought.

Maestro Guglielmi, whose age might be about forty, was a man, once seen, not easily forgotten—a tall, slight man of quick subtile movements, that betrayed the devouring activity within. Maestro Guglielmi had a perfectly colorless face, a prominent, eager nose, thin lips, that perpetually unclosed to a ghostly smile in which the other features took no part; a brow already knitted with those fine wrinkles indicative of constant study, and overhanging eyebrows that framed a pair of eyes that read you like a book. It would have been a bold man who, with those eyes fixed on him, would have told a lie to Maestro Guglielmi, advocate in the High Court of Lucca. If any man had so lied, those eyes would have gathered up the light, and flashed it forth again in lightnings that might consume him. That they were dark and flaming, and greatly dreaded by all on whom Guglielmi fixed them in opposition, was generally admitted by his legal compeers.

"Reverend sir," began Maestro Guglielmi, blandly, stepping up to where the priest stood a little apart, and speaking in a metallic voice audible in any court of law, be it ever so closely packed—"it gratifies me much that chance has so ordered it that we two are left alone." Guglielmi took out his watch. "We have a good half-hour to spare."

Fra Pacifico turned, and for the first time contemplated the lawyer attentively. As he did so, he noted with surprise the power of his eyes.

"I earnestly desire some conversation with you," continued Guglielmi, the semblance of a smile flitting over his hard face. "Can we speak here securely?" And the lawyer glanced round at the various doors, and particularly to an open one, which led from the sala to the chapel, at the farther end of the house. Fra Pacifico moved forward and closed it.

"You are quite safe—say what you please," he answered, bluntly. His frank nature rose involuntarily against the cunning of Guglielmi's look and manner. "We have no spies here."

"Pardon me, I did not mean to insinuate that. But what I have to say is strictly private."

Fra Pacifico eyed Guglielmi with no friendly expression.

"I know you well by repute, reverend sir"—with one comprehensive glance Guglielmi seemed to take in Fra Pacifico mentally and physically—"therefore it is that I address myself to you."

The priest crossed his arms and bowed.

"The marchesa has confided to me the charge of this most delicate case. Hitherto I have conducted it with success. It is not my habit to fail. I have succeeded in convincing Count Nobili's lawyer, and through him Count Nobili himself, that it would be suicidal to his interests should he not make good the marriage-contract with the Marchesa Guinigi's niece. If Count Nobili refuses, he must leave the country. He has established himself in Lucca, and desires, as I understand, to remain there. My noble client has done me the honor to inform me that she is acquainted with, and can prove, some act of villainy committed by his father, who, though he ended his life as an eminent banker at Florence, began it as a money-lender at Leghorn. Count Nobili's father filled in a blank check which a client had incautiously left in his hands, to an enormous amount, or something of that kind, I believe. I refused to notice this circumstance legally, feeling sure that we were strong enough without it. I was also sure that giving publicity to such a fact would only prejudice the position of the future husband of the marchesa's niece. To return. Fortunately, Count Nobili's lawyer saw the case as I put it to him. Count-Nobili will, undoubtedly, be here at two o'clock." Again the lawyer took out his watch, looked at it, and replaced it with rapidity. "A good deal of hard work is comprised in that sentence, 'Count Nobili will be here!'" Again there was the ghost of a smile. "Lawyers must not always be judged by the result. In this case, however, the result is favorable, eminently favorable."

Fra Pacifico's face deepened into a look of disgust, but he said nothing.

"Count Nobili once here and joined to the young lady by the Church, we must keep him. The spouses must pass twenty-four hours under the same roof to complete and legalize the marriage. I am here officially, to see that Count Nobili attends at the time appointed for the ceremony. In reality, I am here to see that Count Nobili remains. This must be no formal union. They must be bound together irrevocably. You must help me, reverend sir."

Maestro Guglielmi turned quickly upon Fra Pacifico. His eyes ran all over him. The priest drew back.

"I have already stretched my conscience to the utmost for the sake of the lady. I can do nothing more."

"But, my father, it is surely to the lady's advantage that, if the count marries her, they should live together, that heirs should be born to them," pleaded Guglielmi in a most persuasive voice. "If the count separates from his wife after the ceremony, how can this be? We do not live in the days of miracles, though we have an infallible pope. Eh, my father? Not in the days of miracles." Guglielmi gave an ironical laugh, and his eyes twinkled. "Besides, there is the civil ceremony."

"The Sindaco of Corellia can be present, if you please, for the civil marriage."

"Unfortunately, there is no time to call the sindaco now," replied Guglielmi. "If Count Nobili remains the night in company with his bride, we shall have no difficulty about the civil marriage to-morrow. Count Nobili will not object then. Not likely."

The lawyer gave a harsh, cynical laugh that grated offensively upon the priest's ear. Fra Pacifico began to think Maestro Guglielmi intolerable.

"That is your affair. I will undertake no further responsibility," responded Fra Pacifico, doggedly.

"You cannot mean, my father, that you will not help me?" And Guglielmi contemplated Fra Pacifico fixedly with all the lightnings he could bring to bear upon him. To his amazement, he produced no effect whatever. Fra Pacifico remained silent. Altogether this was a priest different from any he had ever met with—Guglielmi hated priests—he began to be interested in Fra Pacifico.

"Well, well," was Guglielmi's reply, with an aspect of intense chagrin, "I had better hopes. Your position, Fra Pacifico, as a peace-maker—as a friend of the family—however"—here the lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes wandered restlessly up and down the room—"however, at least permit me to tell you what I intend to do."

Fra Pacifico bowed coldly.

"As you please," was his reply.

Maestro Guglielmi advanced close to Fra Pacifico, and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"The circumstances attending this marriage are becoming very public. My client, the Marchesa Guinigi, considers her position so exalted she dares to court publicity. She forgets we are not in the middle ages. Ha! ha!" and Guglielmi showed his teeth in a smile that was nothing but a grin—"publicity will be fatal to the young lady. This the marchesa fails to see; but I see it, and you see it, my father."

Fra Pacifico shook himself all over as though silently rejecting any possible participation in Maestro Guglielmi's arguments. Guglielmi quite understood the gesture, but continued, perfectly at his ease:

"The high rank of the young lady—the wealth of the count—a marriage-contract broken—an illustrious name libeled—Count Nobili, a well-known member of the Jockey Club, in concealment—the Lucchese populace roused to fury—all these details have reached the capital. A certain royal personage"—here Guglielmi drew himself up pompously, and waved his hand, as was his wont in the fervor of a grand peroration—"a certain royal personage, who has reasons of his own for avoiding unnecessary scandal (possibly because the royal personage causes so much himself, and considers scandal his own prerogative) "—Guglielmi emphasized his joke with such scintillation as would metaphorically have taken any other man than Fra Pacifico off his legs—even Fra Pacifico stared at him with astonishment—"a certain royal personage, I say—earnestly desires that this affair should be amicably arranged—that the republican party should not have the gratification of gloating over a sensational trial between two noble families (the republicans would make terrible capital out of it)—a certain personage desires, I say, that the affair should be arranged—amicably arranged—not only by a formal marriage—the formal marriage, of course, we positively insist on—but by a complete reconciliation between the parties. If this should not be so, the present ceremony will infallibly lead to a lawsuit respecting the civil marriage—the domicile—and the cohabitation—which it is distinctly understood that Count Nobili will refuse, and that the Marchesa Guinigi, acting for her niece, will maintain. It is essential, therefore, that more than the formal ceremony shall take place. It is essential that the subsequent cohabitation—"

"I see your drift," interrupted downright Fra Pacifico, in his blunt way; "no need to go into further details."

Spite of himself, Fra Pacifico had become interested in the narrative. The cunning lawyer intended that Fra Pacifico should become so interested. What was the strong-fisted, simple-hearted priest beside such a sophist as Maestro Guglielmi!

"The royal personage in question," continued Guglielmi, who read in Fra Pacifico's frank countenance that he had conquered his repugnance, "has done me the high honor of communicating to me his august sentiments. I have pledged myself to do all I can to prevent the catastrophe of law. My official capacity, however, ends with Count Nobili's presence here at the appointed hour."

At the word "hour" Guglielmi hastily pulled out his watch.

"Only a few minutes more," he muttered. "But this is not all. Listen, my father."

He gave a hasty glance round, then put his lips close to the priest's ear.

"If I succeed—may I say we?" he added, insinuatingly—"if we succeed, a canonry will be offered to you, Fra Pacifico; and I" (Guglielmi's speaking eyes became brilliantly emphatic now)—"I shall be appointed judge of the tribunal at Lucca."

"Pshaw!" cried Fra Pacifico, retreating from him with an expression of blank disappointment. "I a canon at Lucca! If that is to be the consequence of success, you must depend on yourself, Signore Guglielmi. I decline to help you. I would not be a canon at Lucca if the King of Italy asked me in person."

Guglielmi, whose tactics were, if he failed, never to show it, smiled his falsest smile.

"Noble disinterestedness!" he exclaimed, drawing his delicate hand across his brow. "Nothing could have raised your reverence higher in my esteem than this refusal!"

To conceal his real annoyance, Maestro Guglielmi turned away and coughed. It was a diplomatic cough, ready on all emergencies. Again he consulted his watch.

"Five minutes more, then we must assemble at the altar. A fine will be levied upon Count Nobili, if he is not punctual."

"If it is so near the time, I must beg you to excuse me," said Fra Pacifico, glad to escape.

Fra Pacifico, walked rapidly toward the door opening into the corridor leading to the chapel. His retreating figure was followed by a succession of fireworks from Guglielmi's eyes, indicative of indignation and contempt.

"He who sleeps catches no fish," the lawyer muttered to himself, biting his lips. "But the priest will help me—spite of himself, he will help me. A health to Holy Mother Church! She would not do much if all her ministers were like this country clod. He is without ambition. He has quite fatigued me."

Saying this, Maestro Guglielmi poured out another glass of wine. He critically examined the wine in the light before putting it to his lips; then he swallowed it with an expression of approbation.



CHAPTER VII.

THE HOUR STRIKES.

The chapel was approached by a door communicating with the corridor. (There was another entrance from the garden; at this entrance Adamo was stationed.) It was narrow and lofty, more like a gallery than a chapel, except that the double windows at either end were arched and filled with stained glass. The altar was placed in a recess facing the door opening from the corridor. It was of dark marble raised on steps, and was backed by a painting too much blackened by smoke to be distinguished. Within the rails stood Fra Pacifico, arrayed in a vestment of white and gold. The grand outline of his tall figure filled the front of the altar. No one would have recognized the parish priest in the stately ecclesiastic who wore his robes with so much dignity. Beside Fra Pacifico was Angelo transformed into an acolyte, wearing a linen surplice—Angelo awed into perfect propriety—swinging a silver censer, and only to be recognized by the twinkling of his wicked eyes (not even Fra Pacifico could tame them). To the right of the altar stood the marchesa. Maestro Guglielmi, tablets in hand, was beside her. Behind, at a respectful distance, appeared Silvestro, gathered up into the smallest possible compass.

As the slow moments passed, all stood so motionless—all save Angelo, swinging the silver censer—they might have passed for a sculptured group upon a marble tomb. One—two—struck from the old clock in the Lombard Tower at Corellia. At the last stroke the door from the garden was thrown open. Count Nobili stood in the doorway. At the moment of Count Nobili's appearance Maestro Guglielmi drew out his watch; then he proceeded to note upon his tablets that Count Nobili, having observed the appointed time, was not subject to a fine.

Count Nobili paused on the threshold, then he advanced to the altar. That he had come in haste was apparent. His dress was travel-stained and dusty; the locks of his abundant chestnut hair matted and rough; his whole appearance wild and disordered. All the outward polish of the man was gone; the happy smile contagious in its brightness; the pleasant curl of the upper lip raising the fair mustache; the kindling eye so capable of tenderness. His expression was of a man undergoing a terrible ordeal; defiance, shame, anger, contended on his face.

There was something in the studied negligence of Count Nobili's appearance that irritated the marchesa to the last degree of endurance. She bridled with rage, and exchanged a significant glance with Guglielmi.

Footsteps were now heard coming from the sala. It was Enrica, led by the cavaliere. Enrica was whiter than her bridal veil. She had suffered Pipa to array her as she pleased, without a word. Her hair was arranged in a coronet upon her head; a whole sheaf of golden curls hung down from it behind. There were the exquisite symmetry of form, the natural grace, the dreamy beauty—all the soft harmony of color upon her oval face—but the freshness of girlhood was gone. Enrica had made a desperate effort to be calm. Nobili was under the same roof—in the same room—Nobili was beside her. Would he not show some sign that he still loved her?—Else why had he come?—One glance at him was enough. Oh! he was changed!—She could not bear it. Enrica would have fled had not Trenta held her. The marchesa, too, advanced a step or two, and cast upon her a look so menacing that it filled her with terror. Trembling all over, Enrica clung to the cavaliere. He led her gently forward, and placed her beside Count Nobili standing at the altar. Thus unsupported, Enrica tottered—she seemed about to fall. No hand was stretched out to help her.

Nobili had turned visibly pale as Enrica entered. His face was averted. The witnesses, Adamo and Silvestro, ranged themselves on either side. The marchesa and Maestro Guglielmi drew nearer to the altar. Angelo waved the censer, walking to and fro before the rails. Pipa peeped in at the open doorway. Her eyes were red with weeping. Pipa looked round aghast.

"What a marriage was this! More like a death than a marriage! She would not have married so—not if it had cost her her life—no music, no rose-leaves, no dance, no wine. None had even changed their clothes but the cavaliere and the signorina. And a bridegroom like that!—a statue—not a living man! And the signorina—poverina—hardly able to stand upon her feet! The signorina would be sure to faint, she was so weak."

Pipa had to muffle her face in her handkerchief to drown her sobs. Then Fra Pacifico's impressive voice broke the silence with the opening words of exhortation.

"Deus Israel sit vobiscum."

"Gloria patri," was the response in Angelo's childish treble.

Enrica and Nobili now knelt side by side. Two lighted tapers, typical of chaste love, were placed on the floor beside them on either hand. The image of the Virgin on the altar was uncovered. The tall candles flickered, Enrica and Nobili knelt side by side—the man who had ceased to love, and the woman who still loved, but who dared not confess her love!

As Fra Pacifico proceeded, Count Nobili's face hardened. Was not the basilisk eye of the marchesa upon him? Her lawyer, too, taking notes of every look and gesture?

"Mario Nobili, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wife?" asked the priest. Turning from the altar, Fra Pacifico faced Count Nobili as he put this question.

A hot flush overspread Nobili's face. He opened his lips to speak, but no words were audible. Would the words not come, or would Nobili at the last moment refuse to utter them?

"Mario Nobili, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?" sternly repeated Fra Pacifico, fixing his dark eyes upon him.

"I will," answered Nobili. Whatever his feelings were, Nobili had mastered them.

For an instant Nobili's eye met Enrica's. He turned hastily away. Enrica sighed. Whatever hopes had buoyed her up were gone. Nobili had turned away from her!

Fra Pacifico placed Enrica's hand in that of Nobili. Poor little hand—how it trembled! Ah! would Nobili not recall how fondly he had clasped it? What kisses he had showered upon each rosy little finger! So lately, too! No—Nobili is impassive; not a feature of his face changes. But the contact of Nobili's beloved hand utterly overcame Enrica. The limit of her endurance was reached. Again the shadow of death was upon her—the shadow that had led her to the dark abyss.

When Nobili dropped her hand; Enrica leaned forward upon the edge of the marble rails. She hid her head upon her arms. Her long hair, escaped from the fastening, shrouded her face.

"Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus!" spoke the deep voice of Fra Pacifico.

He made the sign of the cross. The address followed. The priest's last words died away in sonorous echoes. It was done. They were man and wife!

Fra Pacifico had by no outward sign betrayed what he felt during the discharge of his office; but his conscience sorely smote him. He asked himself with dismay if, in helping Enrica, he had not committed a mortal sin? Hitherto he had defended Count Nobili; now his whole soul rose against him. "Would Nobili say nothing in justification?" Spite of himself, Fra Pacifico's fists clinched themselves under his vestments.

But Nobili was about to speak. He gave a hurried glance round the circle—upon Enrica kneeling at the altar; with the air of a man who forces himself to do a hateful penance, he broke silence.

"In the presence of the blessed sacrament"—his voice was thick and hoarse—"I declare that, after the explanations given, I withdraw my accusations. I hold that lady, now Countess Nobili"—and he pointed to the motionless mass of white drapery kneeling beside him—"I hold that lady innocent in thought and life. But I include her in the just indignation with which I regard this house and its mistress, whose agent she has made herself to deceive me."

Count Nobili's kindling eye rested on the marchesa. She, in her turn, shot a furious glance at the cavaliere.

"'Explanations given!' Then Trenta had dared to exonerate Enrica! It was degrading!"

"This reparation made," continued Count Nobili—"my name and hand given to her by the Church—honor is satisfied: I will never live with her!"

Was there no mercy in the man as he pronounced these last words? No appeal? No mercy? Or had the marchesa driven him to bay?

The marchesa!—Nobili's last words had shattered the whole fabric of her ambition! Never for a moment had the marchesa doubted that, the marriage once over, Nobili would have seriously refused the splendid position she offered him. Look at her!—She cannot conceal her consternation.

"I invite you, therefore, Maestro Guglielmi"—the studied calmness of Nobili's manner belied the agitation of his voice and aspect—"you, Maestro Guglielmi, who have been called here expressly to insult me—I invite you to advise the Marchesa Guinigi to accept what I am willing to offer."

"To insult you, Count Nobili?" exclaimed Guglielmi, looking round. (Guglielmi had turned aside to write a few hurried words upon his tablets, torn out the leaf, and slipped it into the marchesa's hand. So rapidly was this done, no one had perceived it.) "To insult you? Surely not to insult you! Allow me to explain."

"Silence!" thundered Fra Pacifico standing before the altar. "In the name of God, silence! Let those who desire to wrangle choose a fitter place. There can be no contentions in the presence of the sacrament. The declaration of Count Nobili's belief in the virtue of his wife I permitted. I listened to what followed, praying that, if human aid failed, God, hearing his blasphemy against the holy sacrament of marriage, might touch his heart. In the hands of God I leave him!"

Having thus spoken, Fra Pacifico replaced the Host in the ciborium, and, assisted by Angelo, proceeded to divest himself of his robes, which he laid one by one upon the altar.

At this instant the marchesa rose and left the chapel. Count Nobili's eyes followed her with a look of absolute loathing. Without one glance at Enrica, still immovable, her head buried on her arms, Nobili left the altar. He walked slowly to the window at the farther end of the chapel. Turning his back upon all present, he took from his pocket a parchment, which he perused with deep attention.

All this time Cavaliere Trenta, radiant in his official costume, his white staff of office in his right hand, had remained standing behind Enrica. Each instant he expected to see her rise, when it would devolve on him to lead her away; but she had not stirred. Now the cavaliere felt that the fitting moment had fully come for Enrica to withdraw. Indeed, he wondered within himself why she had remained so long.

"Enrica, rise, my child," he said, softly. "There is nothing more to be done. The ceremony is over."

Still Enrica did not move. Fra Pacifico leaned over the altar-rails, and gently raised her head. It dropped back upon his hand—Enrica had fainted.

This discovery caused the most terrible commotion. Pipa, who had watched every thing from the door, screamed and ran forward. Fra Pacifico was bending over the prostrate girl, supported in the arms of the cavaliere.

"I feared this," Fra Pacifico whispered. "Thank God, I believe it is only momentary! We must carry her instantly to her room. I will take care of her."

"Poor, broken flower!" cried Trenta, "who will raise thee up?" His voice came thick, struggling with sobs. "Can you see that unmoved, Count Nobili?" Trenta pointed to the retreating figure of Fra Pacifico bearing Enrica in his arms.

At the sound of Trenta's voice, Count Nobili started and turned around. Enrica had already disappeared.

"You will soon give her another bridegroom—he will not leave her as you have done—that bridegroom will be Death! To-day it is the bridal-veil—to-morrow it will be the shroud. Not a month ago she lay upon what might have been her death-bed. Your infamous letter did that!" The remembrance of that letter roused the cavaliere out of himself; he cared not what he said. "That letter almost killed her. Would to God she had died! What has she done? She is an angel! We were all here when you signed the contract. Why did you break it?" Trenta's shrill voice had risen into a kind of wail. "Do you mean to doubt what I told you at Lucca? I swear to you that Enrica never knew that she was offered in marriage to Count Marescotti—I swear it!—I did it—it was my fault. I persuaded the marchesa. It was I. Enrica and Count Marescotti never met but in my presence. And you revenge yourself on her? If you had the heart of a man, you could not do it!"

"It is because I have the heart of a man, I will not suffer degradation!" cried Nobili. "It is because I have the heart of a man, I will not sink into an unworthy tool! This is why I refuse to live with her. She is one of a vile conspiracy. She has joined with the marchesa against me. I have been forced to marry her. I will not live with her!"

Count Nobili stopped suddenly. An agonized expression came into his face.

"I screened her in the first fury of my anger—I screened her when I believed her guilty. Now it is too late—God help her!" He turned abruptly away.

Cavaliere Trenta, whose vehemence had died away as suddenly as it had risen, crept to the door. He threw up his hands in despair. There was no help for Enrica!

All this time Maestro Guglielmi's keen eyes had noted every thing. He was on the lookout for evidence. Persons under strong emotions, as a rule, commit themselves. Count Nobili was young and hot-headed. Count Nobili would probably commit himself. Up to this time Count Nobili had said nothing, however, that could be made use of. Guglielmi's ready brain worked incessantly. If he could carry out the plan he had formed, he might yet be a judge within the year. Already Guglielmi feels the touch of the soft fur upon his official robes!

After the cavaliere's departure, Guglielmi advanced. He had been standing so entirely concealed in the shadow thrown by the altar, that Nobili had forgotten his presence. Nobili now stared at him in angry surprise.

"With your permission," said the lawyer, with a low bow, accosting Nobili, "I hope to convince you how much you have wronged me by your accusation."

"What accusation?" demanded the count, drawing back toward the window. "I do not understand you."

Guglielmi was the marchesa's adviser; Count Nobili hated him.

"Your accusation that 'I am here to insult you.' If you will do me the honor, Count Nobili, to speak to me in private"—Guglielmi glanced at Silvestro, Adamo, and Angelo, peering out half hid by the altar—"if you will do me this honor, I will prove to you that I am here to serve you."

"That is impossible," answered Nobili. "Nor do I care. I leave this house immediately."

"But allow me to observe, Count Nobili," and Maestro Guglielmi drew himself up with an air of offended dignity, "you are bound as a gentleman to retract those words, or to hear my explanation." (Delay at any price was Guglielmi's object.) "Surely, Count Nobili, you cannot refuse me this satisfaction?"

Count Nobili hesitated. What could this strange man have to say to him?

Guglielmi watched him.

"You will spare me half an hour?" he urged. "That will suffice."

Count Nobili looked greatly embarrassed.

"A thousand thanks!" exclaimed Guglielmi, accepting his silence for consent. "I will not trespass needlessly on your time. Permit me to find some one to conduct you to a room."

Guglielmi looked round—Angelo came forward.

"Conduct Count Nobili to the room prepared for him," said the lawyer. "There, Count Nobili, I will attend you in a few minutes."



CHAPTER VIII.

FOR THE HONOR OF A NAME.

When the marchesa entered the sala after she had left the chapel, her steps were slow and measured. Count Nobili's words rang in her ear: "I will not live with her." She could not put these words from her. For the first time in her life the marchesa was shaken in the belief of her mission.

If Count Nobili refused to live with Enrica as his wife, all the law in the world could not force him. If no heir was born to the Guinigi, she had lived in vain.

As the marchesa stood in the dull light of the misty afternoon, leaning against the solid carved table on which refreshments were spread, the old palace at Lucca rose up before her dyed with the ruddy tints of summer sunsets. She trod again in thought those mysterious rooms, shrouded in perpetual twilight. She gazed upon the faces of the dead, looking down upon her from the walls. How could she answer to those dead; for what had she done? That heroic face too with the stern, soft eyes—how could she meet it? What was Count Nobili or his wealth to her without an heir? By threats she had forced Nobili to make Enrica his wife, but no threats could compel him to complete the marriage.

As she lingered in the sala, stunned by the blow that had fallen upon her, the marchesa suddenly recollected the penciled lines which Guglielmi had torn from his tablet and slipped into her hand. She drew the paper from the folds of her dress and read these words:

"We are beaten if Count Nobili leaves the house to-night. Keep him at all hazards."

A sudden revulsion seized her. She raised her head with that snake-like action natural to her. The blood rushed to her face and neck. Guglielmi then still had hope?—All was not lost. In an instant her energy returned to her. What could she do to keep him? Would Enrica—Enrica was still within the chapel. The marchesa heard the murmur of voices coming through the corridor. No, though she worshiped him, Enrica would never lend herself to tempt Nobili with the bait of her beauty—no, even though she was his wife. It would be useless to ask her. "Keep him—how?" the marchesa asked herself with feverish impatience. Every moment was precious. She heard footsteps. They must be leaving the chapel. Nobili, perhaps, was going. No. The door to the garden, by which Nobili had entered the chapel, was now locked. Adamo had given her the key. She must therefore see them when they passed out through the sala. At this moment the howling of the dogs was audible. They were chained up in the cave under the tower. Poor beasts, they had been forgotten in the hurry of the day. The dogs were hungry; were yelping for their food. Through the open door the marchesa saw Adamo pass—a sudden thought struck her.

"Adamo!"

"Padrona." And Adamo's bullet-head and broad shoulders fill up the doorway.

"Where is Count Nobili?"

"Along with the lawyer from Lucca."

"He is safe, then, for the present," the marchesa told herself.

Adamo could not speak for staring at his mistress as she stood opposite to him full in the light. He had never seen such a look upon her face all the years he had served her.

She almost smiled at him.

"Adamo," the marchesa addresses him eagerly, "come here. How many years have you lived with me?"

Adamo grins and shows two rows of white teeth.

"Thirty years, padrona—I came when I was a little lad."

"Have I treated you well, Adamo?"

As she asks this question, the marchesa moves close to him.

"Have I ever complained," is Adamo's answer, "that the marchesa asks me?"

"You saved my life, Adamo, not long ago, from the fire." The eager look is growing intenser. "I have never thanked you. Adamo—"

"Padrona"—he is more and more amazed at her—"she must be going to die! Gesu mio! I wish she would swear at me," Adamo thought. "Padrona, don't thank me—Domine Dio did it."

"Take these"—and the marchesa puts her hand into her pocket and draws out some notes—"take these, these are better than thanks."

Adamo drew back much affronted. "Padrona, I don't want money."

"Yes, yes, take them—for Pipa and the boys"—and she thrusts the notes into his big red hands.

"After all," thought Adamo to himself, "if the padrona is going to die, I may as well have these notes as another."

"I would save your life any day, padrona," Adamo says aloud. "It is a pleasure."

"Would you?" the marchesa fell into a muse.

Again the dogs howled. Adamo makes a motion to go to them.

"Were you going to feed the dogs when I called to you?" she asks.

"Padrona, yes. I was going to feed them."

"Are they very hungry?"

"Very—poverini! they have had nothing since this morning. Now it is five o'clock."

"Don't feed them, Adamo, don't feed them." The marchesa is strangely excited. She holds out her hand to detain him.

Adamo stares at her in mute consternation. "The padrona is certainly going mad before she dies," he mutters, trying to get away.

"Adamo, come here!" He approaches her, secretly making horns against the evil-eye with his fingers. "You saved my life, now you must save my honor."

The words came hissing into his ear. Adamo drew back a step or two. "Blessed mother, what ails her?" But he held his tongue.

The marchesa stands before him drawn up to her full height, every nerve and muscle strained to the utmost.

"Adamo, do you hear?—My honor, the honor of my name. Quick, quick!"

She lays her hand on his rough jacket and grasps it.

Adamo, struck with superstitious awe, cannot speak. He nods.

"The dogs are hungry, you say. Let them loose without feeding. No one must leave the house to-night. Do you understand? You must prevent it. Let the dogs loose."

Again Adamo nods. He is utterly bewildered. He will obey her, of course, but what can she mean?

"Is your gun loaded?" she asks, anxiously.

"Yes, padrona."

"That is well." A vindictive smile lights up her features. "No one must leave the house to-night. You understand? The dogs will be loose—the guns loaded.—Where is Pipa? Say nothing to Pipa. Do you understand? Don't tell Pipa—"

"Understand? No, diavalo! I don't understand," bursts out Adamo. "If you want any one shot, tell me who it is, padrona, and I will do it."

"That would be murder, Adamo." The marchesa is standing very near him. Adamo sees the savage gleam that comes into her eyes. "If any one leaves the house to-night except Fra Pacifico, stop him, Adamo, stop him. You, or the dogs, or the gun—no matter. Stop him, I command you. I have my reasons. If a life is lost I cannot help it—nor can you, Adamo, eh?"

She smiles grimly. Adamo smiles too, a stolid smile, and nods. He is greatly relieved. The padrona is not mad, nor will she die.

"You may sleep in peace, padrona." With the utmost respect Adamo raises her hand to his lips and kisses it. "Next time ask Adamo to do something more, and he will do it. Trust me, no one shall leave the house to-night alive."

The marchesa listens to Adamo breathlessly. "Go—go," she says; "we must not be seen together."

"The signora shall be obeyed," answers Adamo. He vanishes behind the trees.

"Now I can meet Guglielmi!" The marchesa rapidly crosses the sala to the door of her own room, which she leaves ajar.



CHAPTER IX.

HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE.

The room to which Angelo conducts Count Nobili is on the ground-floor, in the same wing as the chapel. It is reached by the same corridor, which traverses all that side of the house. Into this corridor many other doors open. Pipa had chosen it because it was the best room in the house. From the high ceiling, painted in gay frescoes, hangs a large chandelier; the bed is covered with red damask curtains. Such furniture as was available had been carried thither by Pipa and Adamo. One large window, reaching to the ground, looks westward over the low wall.

The sun is setting. The mighty range of mountains are laced with gold; light, fleecy cloudlets float across the sky. Behind rise banks of deepest saffron. These shift and move at first in chaos; then they take the form as of a fiery city. There are domes and towers and pinnacles as of living flame, that burn and glisten. Another moment, and the sun has sunk to rest. The phantom city fades; the ruddy background melts into the gray mountain-side. Dim ghost-like streaks linger about the double summits of La Pagna. They vanish. Nothing then remains but masses of leaden clouds soon to darken into night.

On entering the room, Count Nobili takes a long breath, gazes for a moment on the mountains that rise before him, then turns toward the door, awaiting the arrival of Guglielmi. His restless eye, his shifting color, betray his agitation. The ordeal is not yet over; he must hear what this man has to say.

Maestro Guglielmi enters with a quick, brisk step and easy, confident bearing; indeed, he is in the highest spirits. He had trembled lest Nobili should have insisted upon leaving Corellia immediately after the ceremony when it was still broad daylight. Several unforeseen circumstances had prevented this—Enrica's fainting-fit; the discussion that ensued upon it between Nobili and the old chamberlain—all this had created delay, and afforded him an appropriate opportunity of requesting a private interview. Besides, the cunning lawyer had noted that, during that discussion in the chapel with Cavaliere Trenta, Nobili had evinced indications of other passions besides anger—indications of a certain tenderness in the midst of his vehement sense of the wrong done him by the marchesa. But, what was of far more consequence to Guglielmi was, that all this had the effect of stopping Nobili's immediate departure. That Guglielmi had prevailed upon Nobili to enter the room prepared for him—that he had in so doing domiciled himself voluntarily under the same roof as his wife—was an immense point gained.

All this filled Maestro Guglielmi with the prescience of success. With Nobili in the house, what might not the chapter of accidents produce? All this had occurred, too, without taking into account what the marchesa herself might have planned, when she had read the note of instructions he had written upon a page of his tablets. Guglielmi thought he knew his friend and client the Marchesa Guinigi but little, if her fertile brain had not already created some complication that would have the effect of preventing Count Nobili's departure that night. The instant—the immediate instant—now lay with himself. He was about to make the most of it.

When Guglielmi entered the room, Count Nobili received him with an expression of undisguised disgust. Summoned by Nobili in a peremptory tone to say why he had brought him hither, Guglielmi broke forth with extraordinary volubility. He had used, he declared, his influence with the marchesa throughout for his (Count Nobili's) advantage—solely for his advantage. One word from him, and the Marchesa Guinigi would have availed herself of her legal claims in the most vindictive manner—exposed family secrets—made the whole transaction of the marriage public—and so revenged herself upon him that Count Nobili would have no choice but to leave Lucca and Italy forever.

"All this I have prevented," Guglielmi insisted emphatically. "How could I serve you better?—Could a brother have guarded your honor more jealously? You will come to see and acknowledge the obligation in time—yes, Count Nobili—in time. Time brings all things to light. Time will exhibit my integrity, my disinterested devotion to your interests in their true aspect. All little difficulties settled with my illustrious client, the Marchesa Guinigi (a high-minded and most courageous lady of the heroic type), established in Lucca in the full enjoyment of your enormous wealth—with the lovely lady I have just seen by your side—the enlightened benefactor of the city—the patron of art—the consoler of distress—a leader of the young generation of nobles—the political head of the new Italian party—bearing the grandest name (of course you will adopt that of Guinigi), adorning that name with the example of noble actions—a splendid career opens before you. Yes, Count Nobili—yes—a career worthy of the loftiest ambition!"

"All this I have been the happy means of procuring for you. Another advocate might have exasperated the marchesa's passions for his own purposes; it would have been most easy. But I," continued Guglielmi, bringing his flaming eyes to bear upon Count Nobili, then raising them from him outward toward the darkening mountains as though he would call on the great Apennines to bear witness to his truth—"I have scorned such base considerations. With unexampled magnanimity I have brought about this marriage—all this I have done, actuated by the purest, the most single-hearted motives. In return, Count Nobili, I make one request—I entreat you to believe that I am your friend—"

(Before the lawyer had concluded his peroration, professional zeal had so far transported him that he had convinced himself all he said was true—was he not indeed pleading for his judgeship?)