o credit
his senses, Gerald moved down the stairs, the poet overtook him, and
pressing a purse into his hand, said--

'You must have some more suitable dress than this, and remember
to-morrow.'

CHAPTER XVII. A LOVER'S QUARREL

When Gerald found himself once more in his little room at the Porta
Rosa, it was past midnight. He opened his window and sat down at it to
gaze out upon the starry sky and drink in the refreshing night air, but,
more than even these, to calm down the excitement of his feelings, and
endeavour to persuade himself that what he had passed through was not a
dream. It is not easy for those who have access to every grade they wish
in life--who, perhaps, confer honour where they go--to fashion to their
minds the strange, wild conflict that raged within the youth's heart at
this moment. Little as he had seen of the great poet, he could not help
comparing him with Gabriel, his acquaintance at the Tana. They were
both proud, cold, stern men--strong in conscious power, self-reliant and
daring. Are all men of genius of that stamp, thought Gerald. Are they
who diffuse through existence its most elevating influences, its most
softening emotions--are they hard of mould and stern in character?
Does the force with which they move the world require this impulse of
temperament, as rivers that traverse great continents come down, at
first, from lofty mountains? And if it be so, is not this a heavy price
for which to buy even fame? Then, again, he bethought him, what a noble
gift to bestow must be the affection of such men--how proud must be
they who owned their love or shared their friendship! While he was thus
musing a round, warm arm clasped his neck, and Marietta sat down beside
him. She had waited hours for his return, and now stole gently to his
room to meet him.

'I could not sleep till I had seen you, _caro_,' said she fondly. 'It
seemed as if in these few hours years had separated us.'

'And if they had, Marietta, they could scarcely have brought about
anything stranger. Guess where I have been--with whom I have passed this
entire evening?'

'How can I? Was he a prince?'

'Greater than any prince.'

'That must mean a king, then.'

'Kings die, and a few lines chronicle them; but I speak of one whose
memory will be graven in his language, and whose noble sentiments will
be texts to future generations. What think you of Alfieri?'

'Alfieri!'

'Himself. He was the Count who rescued us from th