up as a library. Over the chimney was a large
picture, covered by a silk curtain. To this Gerald eagerly turned his
eyes, for he already marked that the gilded eagle that surmounted the
frame held in his beak a wreath of flowers, interwoven with laurel
leaves.

'One whose enthusiasm equals your own, boy, placed the wreath there, on
the 17th of January last. It was the festa of Vittorio Alfieri,' said
the Duchess, as she gently pulled the cord that drew back the curtain.

Gerald moved eagerly forward--gazed--passed his hand across his eyes,
as if to dispel a fancy--gazed again and again--and then, turning round,
stood steadfastly staring at the Count himself. A faint, sad smile was
on the calm and haughty face; but, as it passed away, the boy
dropped down upon his knees, and seizing the other's hand, kissed it
rapturously, as he cried--

'Oh! that I should have ever known a moment like this! Tell me, I
beseech thee, Signor Conte, is my brain wandering, or are you Alfieri?'

'Yes, boy,' said he, with a slight sigh, while he raised him from the
ground, laying one hand gently on his shoulder.

'It is with reason, boy, you are proud of this event in your life,' said
the Duchess. 'The truly great are few in this world of ours; and you now
stand before one whose memory will be treasured when we are all dust.'

The poet did not seem to heed or hear these words, but stood calmly
watching the boy, who continued to turn his eyes alternately from the
picture to the original.

'I suspect, boy,' said he, with a smile, 'that your mind-drawn picture
satisfied you better--is it not so?'

'O! you who can so read hearts, why will you not interpret mine?' cried
Gerald, in rapture; for now to his memory in quick succession were
rising the brilliant fancies, the splendid images, the heart-moving
words of one whose genius had been a sort of worship to him.

'This, too, is fame!' said the poet, turning to the Duchess.

'But we are keeping you too long from your guests, madam; and Gherardi
and I will have many an opportunity of meeting. Come up here
to-morrow in the forenoon, and let me talk with you. The youth is more
complimentary to me than was the cardinal yesterday.'

'What was it that he said?' asked she.

'He wondered I should have written the tragedy of "Saul," since we had
it already in the Bible! To-morrow, Gherardi, about eleven, or even
earlier--_a rivederlo!_'

As with slow steps, half in a dream, and scarce daring t