Guglielmi extended his arms as if about to embrace Count Nobili!

All this time Nobili had stood as far removed from him as possible. Nobili had neither moved nor raised his head once. He had listened to Guglielmi, as the rocks listen to the splash of the seething waves beating against their side. As the lawyer proceeded, a deep flush gradually overspread his face—when he saw the lawyer's outstretched arms, he retreated to the utmost limits of the room. Guglielmi's arms fell to his side.

"Whatever may be my opinion of you, Signore Avvocato," spoke the count at length, contemplating Guglielmi fixedly, and speaking slowly, as if exercising a strong control over himself—"whether I accept your friendship, or whether I believe any one word you say, is immaterial. It cannot affect in any way what is past. The declaration I made before the altar is the declaration to which I adhere—I am not bound to state my reasons. To me they are overwhelming. I must therefore decline all discussion with you. It is for you to make such arrangements with your client as will insure me a separation. That done, our paths lie far apart."

Who would have recognized the gracious, facile Count Nobili in these hard words? The haughty tone in which they were uttered added to their sting.

We are at best the creatures of circumstances—circumstances had entirely altered him. At that moment, Nobili was at war with all the world. He hated himself—he hated and he mistrusted every one. Guglielmi was not certainly adapted to restore faith in mankind.

Legal habits had taught Maestro Guglielmi to shape his countenance into a mask, fashioned to whatever expression he might desire to assume. Never had the trick been so difficult! The intense rage that possessed him was uncontrollable. For the first moment he stood stolidly mute. Then he struck the heel of his boot loudly upon the stuccoed floor—would he could crush Count Nobili thus!—crush him and trample upon him—Nobili—the only obstacle to the high honors awaiting him! The next instant Guglielmi was reproaching himself for his want of control—the next instant he was conscious how needful it was to dissemble. Was he—Guglielmi—who had flashed his sword in a thousand battles, to be worsted by a stubborn boy? Outwitted by a capricious lover? Never!

"Excuse me, Count Nobili," he said, overmastering himself by a violent effort—"it is a bitter pang to me, your devoted friend, to be asked to become a party to an act fatal to your prospects. If you adhere to your resolution, you can never return to Lucca—never inhabit the palace your wealth has so superbly decorated. Public opinion would not permit it. You, a stranger in the city, are held to have ill-used and abandoned the niece of the Marchesa Guinigi." Nobili looked up; he was about to reply. "Pardon me, count, I neither affirm nor deny this accusation," continued Guglielmi, observing his movement; "I am giving no opinion on the merits of the case. You have now espoused the lady. If for a second time you abandon her, you will incur the increased indignation of the public. Reconsider, I implore you, this last resolve."

The lawyer's metallic voice grew positively pathetic.

"I will not reconsider it!" cried Count Nobili, indignantly. "I deny your right to advise me. You have brought me into this room for no purpose that I can comprehend. What have I in common with the advocate of my enemy? I desire to leave Corellia. You are detaining me. Here is the deed of separation "—Nobili drew from his breast-pocket the parchment he had perused so attentively in the chapel—"it only needs the lady's signature. Mine is already affixed. Let me tell you, and through you the Marchesa Guinigi, without that deed—and my own free will," he added in a lower tone, "neither you nor she would have forced me here to this marriage; I came because I considered some reparation was due to a young lady whose name has been cruelly outraged. Else I would have died first! If the lady I have made my wife desires, to make any amends to me for the insults that have been heaped upon me through her, let her set me free from an odious thralldom. I will not so much as look upon one who has permitted herself to be made the tool of others to deceive me. She has been treacherous to me in business—she has been treacherous to me in love—no, I will never look upon her again! Live with her?—by God! never!"

The pent-up wrath within him, the maddening sense of wrong, blaze out. Count Nobili is now striding up and down the room insensible to any thing for the moment but the consciousness of his own outraged feelings.

As Count Nobili waxed furious, Maestro Guglielmi grew calm. His busy brain was concocting all sorts of expedients. He leaned his chin upon his hands. His false smile gave place to a sardonic grin, as he watched Nobili—marked his well-set, muscular figure, his easy movements, the graceful curve of his head and neck, his delicate, regular features, his sunny complexion. But Nobili's face without a smile was shorn of its chief charm: that smile, so bright in itself, brought brightness to others.

"A fine, generous fellow, a proper husband for any lady in Italy, whoever she may be," was Guglielmi's reflection, as he watched him. "The young countess has taste. He is not such a fool either, but desperately provoking—like all boys with large fortunes, desperately provoking—and dogged as a mule. But for all that he is a fine, generous-hearted fellow. I like him—I like him for refusing to be forced against his will. I would not live with an angel on such terms." At this point Guglielmi's eyes exhibited a succession of fireworks; his long teeth gleamed, and he smiled a stealthy smile. "But he must be tamed, this youth—he must be tamed. Let me see, I must take him on another tack—on the flank this time, and hit him hard!"

Nobili has now ceased striding up and down the room. He stands facing the window. His ear has caught the barking of several dogs. A minute after, one rushes past the window—raised only by a few stone steps from the ground—formidable beast with long white hair, tail on end, ears erect, open-mouthed, fiery-eyed—this is Argo—Argo let loose, famished—maddened by Adamo's devices—Argo rushing at full speed and tearing up a shower of gravel with his huge paws. Barking horribly, he disappears into the shrubs. Argo's bark is taken up by the other dogs from all round the house in various keys. Juno the lurcher gives a short low yelp; the rat-terrier Tuzzi, a shrill, grating whine like a rusty saw; the bull-terrier, a deep growl. In the solemn silence of the untrodden Apennines that rise around, the loud voices of the dogs echo from cliff to cliff boom down into the abyss, and rattle there like thunder. The night-birds catch up the sound and screech; the frightened bats circle round wildly.

At this moment heavy footsteps creak upon the gravel under the shadow of the wall. A low whistle passes through the air, and the dogs disappear.

"A savage pack, like their mistress," was Count Nobili's thought as his eyes tried to pierce into the growing darkness.

Night is coming on. Heavy vapors creep up from the earth and obscure the air. Darker and denser clouds cover the heavens. Black shadows gather within the room. The bed looms out from the lighter walls like a funeral catafalque.

A few pale gleams of light still linger on the horizon. These fall upon Nobili's figure as he stands framed in the window. As the waning light strikes upon his eyes, a presentiment of danger comes over him. These dogs, these footsteps—what do they mean?

Again a wild desire seizes him to be riding full speed on the mountain-road to Lucca, to feel the fresh night air upon his heated brow; the elastic spring of his good horse under him, each stride bearing him farther from his enemies. He is about to leap out and fly, when the warning hand of the lawyer is laid upon his arm. Nobili shakes him off, but Guglielmi permits himself no indication of offense. Dejection and grief are depicted on his countenance. He shakes his head despondingly; his manner is dangerously fawning. He, too, has heard the dogs, the footsteps, and the whistle. He has drawn his own conclusions.

"I perceive, Count Nobili," he says, "you are impatient."

This was in response to a muttered curse from Nobili.

"Let me go! A thousand devils! Let me go!" cried the count, putting the lawyer back. "Impatient! I am maddened!"

"But not before we have settled the matter in question. That is impossible! Hear me, then. Count Nobili. With the deepest sorrow I accept the separation you demand on the part of the marchesa; you give me no choice. I venture no further remark," continues Guglielmi meekly, drilling his eyes to a subdued expression.

(His eyes are a continual curse to him; sometimes they will tell the truth.)

"But there is one point, my dear count, upon which we must understand each other."

In order to detain Nobili, Guglielmi is about to commit himself to a deliberate lie. Lying is not his practice; not on principle, for he has none. Expediency is his faith, pliancy his creed; lying is inartistic, also dangerous. A lie may grow into a spectre, and haunt you to your grave, perhaps beyond it.

Guglielmi felt he must do something decisive, or that exalted personage who desired to avoid all scandal not connected with himself would be irretrievably offended, and he, Guglielmi, would never sit on the judicial bench. Yet, unscrupulous as he was, the trickster shuddered at the thought of what that lie might cost him.

"It is my duty to inform you, Count Nobili"—Guglielmi is speaking with pompous earnestness—he anxiously notes the effect his words produce upon Count Nobili—"that, unless you remain under the same roof with your wife to-night, the marriage will not be completed; therefore no separation between you will be legal."

Nobili turned pale. He struck his fist violently on the table.

"What! a new difficulty? When will this torture end?"

"It will end to-morrow morning, Count Nobili. To-morrow morning I shall have the honor of waiting upon you, in company with the Mayor of Corellia, for the civil marriage. Every requisition of the law will then have been complied with."

Maestro Guglielmi bows and moves toward the door. If by this means the civil marriage can be brought about, Guglielmi will have clinched a doubtful act into a legal certainty.

"A moment, Signore Avvocato "—and Nobili is following Guglielmi to the door, consternation and amazement depicted upon his countenance, "Is this indeed so?"

Nobili's manner indicates suspicion.

"Absolutely so," answers the mendacious one. "To-morrow morning, after the civil marriage, we shall be in readiness to sign the deed of separation. Allow me in the mean time to peruse it."

He holds out his hand. If all fails, he determines to destroy that deed, and protest that he has lost it.

"Dio Santo!" ejaculates Nobili, giving the deed to him—"twenty-four hours at Corellia!"

"Not twenty-four," suggests Guglielmi, blandly, putting the deed into his pocket and taking out his watch with extraordinary rapidity, then replacing it as rapidly; "it is now seven o'clock. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning the deed of separation shall be signed, and you, Count Nobili, will be free."



CHAPTER X.

THE LAWYER BAFFLED.

At that moment Fra Pacifico's tall figure barred the doorway. He seemed to have risen suddenly out of the darkness. Nobili started back and changed color. Of all living men, he most dreaded the priest at that particular moment. The priest was now before him, stern, grave, authoritative; searching him with those earnest eyes—the priest—a living protest against all he had done, against all he was about to do!

The agile lawyer darted forward. He was about to speak. Fra Pacifico waved him into silence.

"Maestro Guglielmi," he said, with that sonorous voice which lent importance to his slightest utterances, "I am glad to find you here. You represent the marchesa.—My son," he continued, addressing Count Nobili (as he did so, his face darkened into a look of mingled pain and displeasure), "I come from your wife."

At that word Fra Pacifico paused. Count Nobili reddened. His eyes fell upon the floor; he dared not meet the reproving glance he felt was upon him.

"My son, I come from your wife," repeated Fra Pacifico.

There was a dead silence.

"You saw your wife borne from the altar fainting. She was mercifully spared, therefore, hearing from your own lips that you repudiated her. She has since been informed by Cavaliere Trenta that you did so. I am here as her messenger. Your wife accepts the separation you desire."

As each sentence fell from the priest's lips his countenance grew sterner.

"Accepts the separation! Gives me up!" exclaimed Nobili, quite taken aback. "So much the better. We are both of the same mind."

But, spite his words, there were irritation and surprise in Nobili's manner. That Enrica herself should have consented to part from him was altogether an astonishment!

"If Countess Nobili accepts the separation"—and he turned sharply upon Guglielmi—"nothing need detain you here, Signore Avvocato. You hear what Fra Pacifico says. You have only, therefore, to inform the Marchesa Guinigi. Probably her niece has already done so. We know that they act in concert." Count Nobili laughed bitterly.

"The marchesa is not even aware that I am here," interposed Fra Pacifico. "Enrica is now married—she acts for herself. Her first act, Count Nobili, is one of obedience—she sacrifices herself to you."

Again the priest's deep-set eyes turned reprovingly upon Count Nobili. Dare the headstrong boy affect to misunderstand that he had driven Enrica to renounce him? Guglielmi remained standing near the door—self-possessed, indeed, as usual, but utterly crestfallen. His very soul sank within him as he listened to Fra Pacifico. Every thing was going wrong, the judgeship in imminent peril, and this devil of a priest, who ought to know better, doing every thing to divide them!

"Signore Guglielmi," said Nobili, with a significant glance at the open door, "allow me to repeat—we need not detain you. We shall now act for ourselves. Without reference to the difficulties you have raised—"

"The difficulties I have raised have been for your own good, Count Nobili," was Guglielmi's indignant reply. "Had I been supported by"—and he glanced at Fra Pacifico—"by those whose duty teaches them obedience to the ordinances of the Church, you would have saved yourself and others the spectacle of a matrimonial scandal that will degrade you before the eyes of all Italy."

Count Nobili was rushing forward, with some undefined purpose of chastising Guglielmi, when Fra Pacifico interposed. A quiet smile parted his well-formed mouth; he shrugged his shoulders as he eyed the enraged lawyer.

"Allow me to judge of my duty as a priest. Look to your own as a lawyer, or it may be the worse for you. What says the motto?—'Those who seek gold may find sand.'"

Guglielmi, greatly alarmed at what Fra Pacifico might reveal of their previous conversation, waited to hear no more; he hastily disappeared. Fra Pacifico watched the manner of his exit with silence, the quiet smile of conscious power still on his lips. When he turned and addressed Count Nobili, the smile had died out.

Before Fra Pacifico can speak, the whole pack of dogs, attracted by the loud voices, gather round the steps before the open window. They are barking furiously. The smooth-skinned, treacherous bull-dog is silent, but he stands foremost. True to his breed, the bull-dog is silent. He creeps in noiselessly—his teeth gleam within an inch of Nobili. Fra Pacifico spies him. With a furious kick he flings him out far over the heads of the others. The bull-dog's howl of anguish rouses the rest to frenzy. A moment more, and Fra Pacifico and Count Nobili would have been attacked within the very room, but again footsteps are heard passing in the shadow. A shot is fired close at hand. The dogs rush off, the bull-dog whining and limping in the rear.

Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico exchange glances. There is a knock at the door. Pipa enters carrying a lighted lamp which she places on the table. Pipa does not even salute Fra Pacifico, but fixes her eyes, swollen with crying, upon Count Nobili.

"What is the matter?" asks the priest.

"Riverenza, I do not know. Adamo and Angelo are out watching."

"But, Pipa, it is very strange. A shot was fired. The dogs, too, are wilder than ever."

"Riverenza, I know nothing. Perhaps there are some deserters about. We are used to the dogs. I never hear them. I am come from the signorina."

At that name Count Nobili looks up and meets Pipa's gaze. If Pipa could have stabbed him then and there with the silver dagger in her black hair she would have done it, and counted it a righteous act. But she must deliver her message.

"Signore Conte"—Pipa flings her words at Nobili as if each word were a stone, with which she would have hit him—"Signore Conte, the marchesa has sent me. The marchesa bids me salute you. She desired me to bring in this light. I was to say supper is served in the great sala. She eats in her own room with the cavaliere, and hopes you will excuse her."

Before the count could answer, Pipa was gone.

"My son," said Fra Pacifico, standing beside him in the dimly-lighted room, "you have now had time to reflect. Do you accept the separation offered to you by your wife?"

"I do, my father."

"Then she will enter a convent." Nobili sighed heavily. "You have broken her heart."

There was a depth of unexpressed reproach in the priest's look. Tears gathered in his eyes, his deep voice shook.

"But why if she ever loved me"—whispered Nobili into Fra Pacifico's ear as though he shrank from letting the very walls hear what he was about to say—

"If she loved you!" burst out Fra Pacifico with rising passion—"if she loved you! You have my word that she loved you—nay, God help her, that she loves you still!"

Fra Pacifico drew back from Nobili as he said this. Again Nobili approached him, speaking into his ear.

"Why, then, if she loved me, could she join with the marchesa against me? Was I not induced by my love for her to pay her aunt's debts? Answer me that, my father. Why did she insist upon this ill-omened marriage?—a proceeding as indelicate as it is—"

"Silence!" thundered Fra Pacifico—"silence, I command you! What you say of that pure and lovely girl whose soul is as crystal before me, is absolute sacrilege. I will not listen to it!"

Fra Pacifico's eyes flashed fire. He looked as if he would strike Count Nobili where he stood. He checked himself, however; then he continued with more calmness: "To become your wife was needful for the honor of Enrica's name, which you had slandered. The child put herself in my hands. I am responsible for this marriage—I only. As to the marchesa, do you think she consults Enrica? The hawk and the dove share not the same nest! No, no. Did the marchesa so much as tell Enrica, when she offered her as wife to Count Marescotti?"

At the sound of Marescotti's name Nobili's assumed composure utterly gave way. His whole frame stiffened with rage.

"Yes—Marescotti—curse him! And I am the husband of the woman he refused!"

"For shame, Count Nobili!—you have yourself exonerated her."

"Enrica must have been an accomplice!" cried Nobili, transported out of himself. Count Marescotti's name had exasperated him beyond control.

"Fool!" exclaimed Fra Pacifico. "Will you not listen to reason? Has not Enrica by her own act renounced all claim to you as a wife? Is not that enough?"

Nobili was silent. Hitherto he had been driven on, goaded by the promptings of passion, and the firm belief that Enrica was the mere tool of her aunt. Now the same facts detailed by the priest placed themselves in a new light. For the first time Nobili doubted whether he was entirely justified in all that he had done—in all that he was about to do.

Meanwhile Fra Pacifico was losing all patience. His manly nature rose within him at what he considered Nobili's deliberate cruelty. Inflexible in right, Fra Pacifico was violent in face of wrong.

"Why did you not let her die?" he exclaimed, bitterly. "It would have saved her a world of suffering. I thought I knew you, Mario Nobili—knew you from a boy," he added, contemplating him with a dark scowl. "You have deceived me. Every word you utter only sinks you lower in my esteem."

"It would indeed have been better had we both perished in the flames!" cried Nobili in a voice full of anguish—"perished—locked in each other's arms! Poor Enrica!" He turned away, and a low sob burst from his heart of hearts. "The marchesa has destroyed my love!—She has blighted my life!" Nobili's voice sounded hollow in the dimly-lighted room. At last Nobili was speaking out—speaking, as it were, from the grave of his love! "Yes, I loved her," he continued dreamily—"I loved her! How much I did not know!"

He had forgotten he was not alone. The priest was but dimly visible. He was leaning against the wall, his massive chin resting on his hand, listening to Nobili. Now, hearing what he said, Fra Pacifico's anger had vanished. After all, he had not been mistaken in his old pupil! Nobili was neither cruel nor heartless; but he had been driven to bay! Now he pitied him, profoundly. What could he say to him? He could urge Nobili no more. He must work out his own fate!

Again Nobili spoke.

"When I saw her sweet face turned toward me as she entered the chapel, I dared not look again! It was too late. My pride as a man, all that is sacred to me as a gentleman, has been too deeply wounded. The marchesa has done it. She alone is responsible. She has left me no alternative. I will never accept a wife forced upon me by her—never, by Heaven! My father, these are my last words. Carry them to Enrica."

Count Nobili's head dropped upon his breast. He covered his face with his hands.

"My son, I leave you in the hands of God. May He lead you and comfort you! But remember, the life of your wife is bound up in your life. Hitherto Enrica has lived upon hope. Deprived of hope, she will die."

When Nobili looked up, Fra Pacifico was gone.



CHAPTER XI.

FACE TO FACE.

The time had now come when Count Nobili must finally make up his mind. He had told Fra Pacifico that his determination was unaltered. He had told him that his dignity as a man, his honor as a gentleman, demanded that he should free himself from the net-work of intrigues in which the marchesa had entangled him. Of all earthly things, compliancy with her desires most revolted him. Rather than live any longer the victim either of her malice or her ambition, he had brought himself to believe that it was his duty to renounce Enrica. Until Fra Pacifico had entered that room within which he was again pacing up and down with hasty strides, no doubt whatever had arisen in his mind as to what it was incumbent upon him to do: to give Enrica the protection of his name by marriage, then to separate. Whether to separate in the manner pointed out by Guglielmi he had not decided. An innate repulsion, now increased by suspicion, made him distrust any act pressed upon him by that man, especially when urged in concert with the marchesa.

Every hour passed at Corellia was torture to him. Should he go at once, or should he remain until the morning?—sign the deed?—complete the sacrifice? Already what he had so loudly insisted on presented itself now to him in the light of a sacrifice. Enrica loved him still—he believed Fra Pacifico. The throbbing of his heart as he thought of her told him that he returned that love. She was there near him under the same roof. Could he leave her? Yes, he must leave her! He would trust himself no longer in the hands of the marchesa or of her agent. Instinct told him some subtle scheme lay under the urgings of Guglielmi—the dangerous civilities of the marchesa. He would go. The legal separation might be completed elsewhere. Why only at Corellia? Why must those formalities insisted on by Guglielmi be respected? What did they mean? Of the real drift of the delay Nobili was utterly ignorant. Had he asked Fra Pacifico, he would have told him the truth, but he had not done so.

To meet Enrica in the morning; to meet her again in the presence of her detested aunt; to meet her only to sign a deed separating them forever under the mockery of mutual consent, was agony. Why should he endure it?

Nobili, wrought up to a pitch of excitement that almost robbed him of reason, dares not trust himself to think. He seizes his hat, which lay upon the table, and rushes out into the night. The murmur of voices comes dimly to him in the freshness of the air out of a window next his own. A circle of light shines on the glistening gravel before him. There must be people within—people watching him, doubtless. As the thought crosses his mind he is suddenly pinned to the earth. Argo is watching for him—stealthy Argo—Argo springs upon him silently from behind; he holds him tightly in his grip. The dog made no sound, nor does he now, but he has laid Nobili flat on the ground. He stands over him, his heavy paws planted upon his chest, his open jaws and dripping tongue close upon his face, so close, that Nobili feels the dog's hot breath upon his skin. Nobili cannot move; he looks up fixedly into Argo's glaring, bloodshot eyes. His steady gaze daunts the dog. In the very act of digging his big fangs into Nobili's throat Argo pauses; he shrinks before those human eyes before which the brutish nature quails. In an instant Nobili's strong hands close round his throat; he presses it until the powerful paws slacken in their grip—until the fiery eyes are starting from their sockets.

Silent as is the struggle the other dogs are alarmed—they give tongue from different sides. Footsteps are rapidly approaching—the barrel of a gun gleams out of the darkness—a shot is fired—the report wanders off in endless reverberation among the rocks—another shot, and another, in instant succession, answer each other from behind the villa.

With a grasp of iron Nobili holds back gallant Argo—Argo foaming at the mouth; his white-coated chest heaving, as if in his last agony! Yet Argo is still immovable—his heavy paws upon Nobili's chest pressing with all his weight upon him!

Now the footsteps have turned the corner! Dim forms already shape themselves in the night mist. The other dogs, barking savagely, are behind—they are coming—they are at hand! Ah! Nobili, what can you do now?—Nobili understands his danger. Quick as thought Nobili has dealt Argo a tremendous blow under the left ear. He seizes him by his milk-white hair so long and beautiful, he flings him against the low wall almost insensible. Argo falls a shapeless mass. He is stunned and motionless. Before the shadow of Adamo is upon him—before the dogs noses touch him—Nobili is on his feet. With one bound he has leaped through the window—the same from which the voices had come (it has been opened in the scuffle)—in an instant he closes the sash! He is safe!

Coming suddenly out of the darkness, after the great force he had put forth, Nobili feels giddy and bewildered. At first he sees nothing but that there is a light in the centre of the room. As his eyes fix themselves upon it the light almost blinds him. He puts his hand to his forehead, where the veins had swollen out like cords upon his fair skin. He puts up his hands to shade his dazzled eyes before which clouds of stars dance desperately. He steadies himself and looks round.

Before him stands Enrica!

By Pipa's care the bridegroom's chamber had been chosen next the bride's when she prepared Count Nobili's room. Pipa was straightforward and simple in her notions of matrimony, but, like a wise woman, she had held her tongue.

Nobili and Enrica are alone. A furtive glance passes between them. Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks. The first movement comes from Enrica. She sinks backward upon a chair. The tangle of her yellow hair closes round her face upon which a deep blush had risen at sight of Nobili. When that blush had died out she looked resigned, almost passionless. She knew that the moment had come which must decide her fate. Before they two parted she would hear from the lips of the man she loved if they were ever to meet again! Her eyes fell to the ground. She dared not raise them. If she looked at Nobili, she must fling herself into his arms.

Nobili, standing on the same spot beyond the circle of the light, gazes at Enrica in silence. He is overwhelmed by the most conflicting emotions. But the spell of her beauty is upon him. His pulses beat madly. For an instant he forgets where he is. He forgets all but that Enrica is before him. For a moment! Then his brain clears. He remembers every thing—remembers—oh, how bitterly!—that, after all that has passed, his very presence in that room is an insult to her! He feels he ought to go—yet an irresistible longing chains him to the spot. He moves toward the door. To reach it he must pass close to Enrica. When he is near the door he stops. The light shows that his clothes are torn—that there is blood upon his face and hands. In scarcely articulate words Nobili addresses her.

"Enrica—countess, I mean"—Nobili hesitates—"pardon this intrusion.—You saw the accident.—I did not know that this was your room."

Again Nobili pauses, waiting for an answer. None comes. Would she not speak to him? Alas! had he deserved that she should? Nobili takes a step or two toward the door. With one hand upon the lock he pauses once more, gazing at Enrica with lingering eyes. Then he turns to leave the room. It is all over!—he had only to depart! A low cry from Enrica stops him.

"Nobili," Enrica says, "tell me—oh! tell me, are you hurt?"

Enrica has risen from the chair. One hand rests on the table for support. Her voice falters as she asks the question. Nobili, every drop of whose blood runs fevered in his veins, turns toward her.

"I am not hurt—a scratch or two—nothing."

"Thank God!" Enrica utters, in a low voice.

Nobili endeavors to approach her. She draws back.

"As I am here"—he speaks with the utmost embarrassment—"here, as you see, by accident"—his voice rests on the words—"I cannot go—"

As Nobili speaks he perceives that Enrica gradually retreats farther from him. The tender delight that had come into her eyes when he first addressed her fades out into a scared look—a look like a defenseless animal expecting to receive a death-wound. Nobili sees and understands the expression.

His heart smites him sorely. Great God!—has he become an object of terror to her?

"Enrica!"—she starts back as Nobili pronounces her name, yet he speaks so softly the sound comes to her almost like a sigh—"Enrica, do not fear me. I will say no word to offend you. I cannot go without asking your pardon. As one who loved you once—as one who loves—" He stops. What is he saying?—"I humbly beseech you to forgive me. Enrica, let me hear you say that you forgive me."

Still Enrica retreats from him, that suffering, saint-like look upon her face he knows so well. Nobili follows her. He kneels at her feet. He kneels at the feet of the woman from whom, not an hour before, he had demanded a separation!

"Say—can you forgive me before I go?"

As Nobili speaks, his strong heart goes out to her in speechless longings. If Enrica had looked into his eyes they would have told her that he never had loved her as now! And they were parted!

Enrica puts out her hand timidly. Her lips move as if to speak, but no sound comes. Nobili rises; he takes her hand within both his own. He kisses it reverently.

"Dear hand—" he murmurs, "and it was mine!"

Released from his, the dainty little hand falls to her side. She sighs deeply. There is the old charm in Nobili's voice—so sweet, so subtile. The tones fall upon her ear like strains of passionate music. A storm of emotion sweeps across her face. She has forgotten all in the rapture of his presence. Yes!—that voice! Had it not been raised but a few hours before at the altar to repudiate her? How can she believe in him? How surrender herself to the glamour of his words? Remembering all this, despair comes over her. Again Enrica shrinks from him. She bursts into tears and hides her face with her hands.

Enrica's distrust of him, her silence, her tears, cut Nobili to the soul. He knows he deserves it. Ah!—with her there before him, how he curses himself for ever having doubted her! Every justification suddenly leaves him. He is utterly confounded. The gossip of the club—Count Marescotti and his miserable verses—the marchesa herself—what are they all beside the purity of those saint-like eyes? Nera, too—false, fickle, sensual Nera—a mere thing of flesh and blood—he had left her for Nera! Was he mad?

At that moment, of all living men, Count Nobili seemed to himself the most unworthy! He must go—he did not deserve to stay!

"Enrica—before I leave you, speak to me one word of forgiveness—I implore you!"

As he speaks their eyes meet. Yes, she is his own Enrica—unchanged, unsullied!—the idol is intact within its shrine—the sanctuary is as he had left it! No rude touch had soiled that atmosphere of purity and freshness that floated like an aureole around her!

How could he leave her?—if they must part, he would hear his fate from her own lips. Enrica is leaning against the wall speechless, her face shaded by her hand. Big tears are trickling through her fingers. Unable to support herself she clings to a chair, then seats herself. And Nobili, pale with passion stands by, and dares not so much as to touch her—dares not touch her, although she is his wife!

In the fury of his self-reproach, he digs his hands into the masses of thick chestnut curls that lie disordered about his head.

Fool, idiot!—had he lost her? A terrible misgiving overcomes him? It fills him with horror. Was it too late? Would she never forgive him? Nobili's troubled eyes, that wander all over her, ask the question.

"Speak to me—speak to me!" he cries. "Curse me—but speak to me!"

At this appeal Enrica turns her tear-bedewed face toward him.

"Nobili," she says at last, very low, "would you have gone without seeing me?"

Nobili dares not lie to her. He makes no reply.

"Oh, do not deceive me, Nobili!" and Enrica wrings her hands and looks piteously into his face. "Tell me—would you have come to me?"

It is only by a strong effort that Nobili can restrain himself from folding Enrica in his arms and in one burning kiss burying the remembrance of the miserable past. But he trembles lest by offending her the tender flower before him may never again expand to the ardor of his love. If Fra Pacifico has not by his arguments already shaken Nobili's conviction of the righteousness of his own conduct, the sight of Enrica utterly overcomes him.

"Deceive you!" he exclaims, approaching her and seizing her hands which she did not withdraw—"deceive you! How little you read my heart!"

He holds her soft hands firmly in his—he covers them with kisses. Enrica feels the tender pressure of his lips pass through her whole frame. But, can she trust him?

"Did I not love you enough?" she asks, looking into his face. She gently disengages her hands from his grasp. There is no reproach in her look, but infinite sorrow. "Can I believe you?" And the soft blue eyes rest upon him full of pathetic pleading.

An expression of despair comes into Nobili's bright face. How can he answer her? How can he satisfy her when he himself has shaken her trust? Alas! would the golden past never come again? The past, tinted with the passion of ardent summer?

"Believe me?" he cries, in a tone of wildest passion. "Can you ask me?"

As he speaks he leans over her. Love is in his voice—his eyes—his whole attitude. Would she not understand him? Would she reject him?

Enrica draws back—she raises her hand in protest.

"Let me again"—Nobili is following her closely—"let me implore your forgiveness of my unmanly conduct."

She presses her hands to her bosom as if in pain, but not a sound comes to her lips.

"Believe me," he urges, "I have been driven mad by the marchesa! It is my only excuse."

"Am I?" Enrica answers. "Have I not suffered enough from my aunt? What had she to do between you and me? Did I love you less because she hated you? Listen, Nobili"—Enrica with difficulty commands her voice—"from the first time we met in the cathedral I gave myself to you—you—you only."

"But, Enrica—love—you consented to leave me. You sent Fra Pacifico to say so."

The thought that Enrica had so easily resigned him still rankled in Nobili's heart. Spite of himself, there is bitterness in his tone.

Enrica is standing aloof from him. The light of the lamp strikes upon her golden hair, her downcast eyes, her cheeks mantling with blushes.

"I leave you!"—a soft dew came into Enrica's eyes as she fixed them upon Nobili—a dew that rapidly formed itself into two tears that rolled silently down her cheek—"never—never!"

Spite of the horrors of the past, these words, that look, tell him she is his! Nobili's heart leaps within him. For a moment he is breathless—speechless in the tumult of his great joy.

"Oh! my beloved!" he cries, in a voice that penetrates her very soul. "Come to me—here—to a heart all your own!" He springs forward and clasps her in his arms. "Thus—thus let the past perish!" Nobili whispers as his lips touch hers. Enrica's head nestles upon his breast. She has once more found her home.

A subdued knock is heard at the door.

"Sangue di Dio!" mutters Nobili, disengaging himself from Enrica—"what new torment is this? Is there no peace in this house? Who is there?"

"It is I, Count Nobili." Maestro Guglielmi puts in his hatchet face and glaring teeth. In an instant his piercing eyes have traveled round the room. He has taken in the whole situation—Count Nobili in the middle of the floor—flushed—agitated—furious at this interruption; Enrica—revived—conscious—blushing at his side. The investigation is so perfectly satisfactory that Maestro Guglielmi cannot suppress a grin of delight.

"Believe me, Signore Conte," he says, advancing cautiously a step or two forward into the room, a deprecating look on his face—"believe me—this intrusion"—Guglielmi turns to Enrica, grins again palpably, then bows—"is not of my seeking."

"Tell me instantly what brings you here?" demands Nobili, advancing. (Nobili would have liked beyond measure to relieve his feelings by kicking him.)

"It is just that"—Guglielmi cannot refrain from another glance round before he proceeds—(yes, they are reconciled, no doubt of it. The judgeship is his own! Evviva! The illustrious personage—so notoriously careful of his subject's morals—who had deigned to interest himself in the marriage, might possibly, at the birth of a son and heir to the Guinigi, add a pension—who knows? At this reflection the lawyer's eyes become altogether unmanageable)—"it is just that," repeats Guglielmi, making a desperate effort to collect himself. "Personally I should have declined it, personally; but the marchesa's commands were absolute: 'You must go yourself, I will permit no deputy.'"

"Damn the marchesa! Shall I never be rid of the marchesa?"

Nobili's aspect is becoming menacing. Maestro Guglielmi is not a man easily daunted; yet once within the room, and the desired evidence obtained, he cannot but feel all the awkwardness of his position. Greatly as Guglielmi had been tickled at the notion of becoming himself a witness in his own case, to do him justice he would not have volunteered it.

"The marchesa sent me," he stammers, conscious of Count Nobili's indignation (with his arms crossed, Count Nobili is eying Guglielmi from head to foot). "The marchesa sent me to know—"

Nobili unfolds his arms, walks straight up to where Guglielmi is standing, and shakes his fist in his face.

"Do you know, Signore Avvocato, that you are committing an intolerable impertinence? If you do not instantly quit this room, or give me some excellent reason for remaining, you shall very speedily have my opinion of your conduct in a very decided manner."

Count Nobili is decidedly dangerous. He glares at Guglielmi like a very devil. Guglielmi falls back. The false smile is upon his lips, but his treacherous eyes express his terror. Guglielmi's combats are only with words, his weapon the pen; otherwise he is powerless.

"Excuse me, Count Nobili, excuse me," he stammers. He rubs his hands nervously together and watches Nobili, who is following him step by step. "It is not my fault—I give you my word—not my fault. Don't look so, count; you really alarm me. I am here as a man of peace—I entreated the marchesa to retire to rest. I represented to her the peculiar delicacy of the position, but I grieve to say she insisted."

Nobili is now close to him; his eyes are gathered upon him more threateningly than ever.

"Remember, sir, you are addressing me in the presence of my wife—be careful."

What a withering look Nobili gives Guglielmi as he says this! He can with difficulty keep his hands off him!

"Yes—yes—just so—just so—I applaud your sentiments, Count Nobili—most appropriate. Now I will go."

Alarmed as he is, Guglielmi cannot resist one parting glance at Enrica. She is crimson. Then with an expression of infinite relief he retreats to the door walking backward. Guglielmi has a strong conviction that if he turns round Count Nobili may kick him, so, keeping his eyes well balanced upon him, he fumbles with his hands behind his back to find the handle of the door. In his confusion he misses it.

"Not for worlds, Signore Conte," says Guglielmi, nervously passing his hand up and down the panel in search of the door-handle—"not for worlds would I offend you! Believe me—(maledictions on the door—it is bewitched!)"

Now Guglielmi has it! Safely clutching the handle with both his hands, Guglielmi's courage returns. His mocking eyes look up without blinking into Nobili's, fierce and flashing as they are.

"Before I go"—he bows with affected humility—"will you favor me, count, and you, madame" (Guglielmi is clutching the door-handle tightly, so as to be able to escape at any moment), "by informing me whether you still desire the deed of separation to be prepared for your signature in the morning?"

"Leave the room!" roars Count Nobili, stamping furiously on the floor—"leave the room, or, Domine Dio!—"

Maestro Guglielmi had jumped out backward, before Count Nobili could finish the sentence.

"Enrica!" cries Nobili, turning toward her—he had banged-to the door and locked it—"Enrica, if you love me, let us leave this accursed villa to-night! This is more than I can bear!"

What Enrica replied, or if Enrica ever replied at all, is, and ever will remain, a mystery!



CHAPTER XII.

OH BELLO!

An hour or two has passed. A slow and cautious step, accompanied with the tapping of a stick upon the stone flags of the floor, is audible along the narrow passage leading from the sala to Pipa's room. It is as dark as pitch. Whoever it is, is afraid of falling, and creeps along cautiously, feeling by the wall.

Pipa, expecting to be summoned to her mistress—Pipa, wondering greatly indeed what Enrica can be about, and why she does not go to bed, when she, the blessed dear, was so faint and tired, and crying—oh, so pitifully!—when she left her—Pipa, leaning against the door-post near the half-open door, dozing like a dog with one eye open in case she should be called—listened and looked out into the passage. A figure is standing within the light that streams out from the door, a very well-remembered figure, stout and short—a little bent forward on a stick—with a round, rosy face framed in snowy curls, a world of pleasant wickedness in two twinkling eyes, on which the light strikes, and a mouth puckered up for any mischief.

"Madonna!" cries Pipa, rubbing her eyes—"the cavaliere! How you did frighten me! I cannot bear to hear footsteps about when Adamo is out;" and Pipa gazes up and down into the darkness with an unpleasant consciousness that something ghostly might be watching her.

"Pipa," says the cavaliere, putting his finger to his nose and winking palpably, "hold your tongue, and don't scream when I tell you something. Promise me."

"O Gesu!" cries Pipa in a loud voice, starting back, forgetting his injunction—"is it not about the signorina?"

"Hold your tongue, Pipa, or I will tell you nothing."

Pipa's head is instantly close to the cavaliere's, her face all eagerness.

"Yes, it is about the signorina—the countess. She is gone!"

"Gone!" and Pipa, spite of warning, fairly shouts now "gone!" at which the cavaliere shakes his stick at her, smiling, however, benignly all the time. "Holy mother! gone! O cavaliere! tell me—she is not dead?"

(Ever since Pipa had tended Enrica lying on her bed, so still and cold, it seemed reasonable to her that she might die at any instant, without warning given.)

"Yes, Pipa," answers the cavaliere solemnly, his voice shaking slightly, but he still smiles, though the dew of rising tears is in his merry eyes—"yes, dead—dead to us, my Pipa—I fear dead to us."

Pipa sinks back in speechless horror against the wall, and groans.

"But only to us—(don't be a fool, Pipa)"—this in a parenthesis—"she is gone with her husband."

Pipa rises to her feet and stares at Trenta, at first wildly, then, as little by little the hidden sense comes to her, her rosy lips slowly part and lengthen out until every snowy tooth is visible. Then Pipa covers her face with her apron, and shakes from head to foot in such a fit of laughter, that she has to lean against the wall not to fall down. "Oh hello!" is all she can say. This Pipa repeats at intervals in gasps.

"Come, Pipa, that will do," says the cavaliere, poking at her with his stick—"I must get back before I am missed—no one must know it till morning—least of all the marchesa and Guglielmi. They are shut up together. The marchesa says she will sit up all night. But Count Nobili and his wife are gone—really gone. Fra Pacifico managed it. He got hold of Adamo, who was running round the house with a loaded gun, all the dogs after him. Take care of Adamo when he comes back to-night, Pipa. He is fastening up the dogs, and feeding them, and taking care of poor Argo, who is badly hurt. He is quite mad, Adamo. I never saw a man so wild. He would not come in. He said the marchesa had told him to shoot some one. He swore he would do it yet. He nearly fought with Fra Pacifico when he forced him in. Adamo is quite mad. Tell him nothing to-night; he is not safe."

Pipa has now let down her apron. Her bright olive-complexioned face beams in one broad smile, like the full moon at harvest. She is still shaking, and at intervals gives little spasmodic giggles.

"Leave Adamo to me" (another giggle); "I will manage him" (another). "Why, he might have shot the signorina's husband—the fool!"

This thought steadies Pipa for an instant, but she bursts out again. "Oh hello!"—Pipa gurgles like a stream that cannot stop running; then she breaks off all at once, and listens. "Hush! hush! There is Adamo coming, cavaliere—hush! hush! Make haste and go away. He is coming—Adamo; I hear him on the gravel."

"Say nothing until the morning," whispers the cavaliere. "Give them a fair start. Ha! ha!"

Pipa nods. Her face twitches all over. As Cavaliere Trenta turns to go, Pipa catches him smartly by the shoulder, draws him to her, and speaks into his ear:

"To think the signorina has run away with her own husband! Oh bello!"

THE END