sage in reply to Lena. "That is also well!" Lena
said. Her brother Karl was a favourite with General Pierson. She proposed
that Adela and herself should go to Count Karl, and urge him to use his
influence with the General. This, however, Adela was disinclined to do;
she could not apparently say why. When Lena went to him, she was
astonished to hear that he knew every stage of her advance up to the
point of pardoning her erratic lover; and even knew as much as that
Wilfrid's dejected countenance on the night when Vittoria's marriage was
published in the saloon of the duchess on Lake Como, had given her fresh
offence. He told her that many powerful advocates were doing their best
for the down-fallen officer, who, if he were shot, or killed, would still
be gazetted an officer. "A nice comfort!" said Lena, and there was a
rallying exchange of banter between them, out of which she drew the
curious discovery that Karl had one of his strong admirations for the
English lady. "Surely!" she said to herself; "I thought they were all so
cold." And cold enough the English lady seemed when Lena led to the
theme. "Do I admire your brother, Countess Lena? Oh! yes;--in his uniform
exceedingly."

Milan was now full. Wilfrid had heard from Adela that Count Ammiani and
his bride were in the city and were strictly watched. Why did not
conspirators like these two take advantage of the amnesty? Why were they
not in Rome? Their Chief was in Rome; their friends were in Rome. Why
were they here? A report, coming from Countess d'Isorella, said that they
had quarrelled with their friends, and were living for love alone. As she
visited the Lenkensteins--high Austrians--some believed her; and as Count
Ammiani and his bride had visited the Duchess of Graatli, it was thought
possible. Adela had refused to see Vittoria; she did not even know the
house where Count Ammiani dwelt; so Wilfrid was reduced to find it for
himself. Every hour when off duty the miserable sentimentalist wandered
in that direction, nursing the pangs of a delicious tragedy of emotions;
he was like a drunkard going to his draught. As soon as he had reached
the head of the Corso, he wheeled and marched away from it with a lofty
head, internally grinning at his abject folly, and marvelling at the
stiff figure of an Austrian common soldier which flashed by the windows
as he passed. He who can unite prudence and madness, sagacity and
stupidity, is the true buffoon; nor, vindictive as we