rescotti. "I agree with you--marriage is quite impossible.
I hope, too," he added, recovering himself a little, with a faint
twinkle in his eye, "you will find your mission at Lucca equally
impossible. San Riccardo grant it!" And the old man crossed himself,
and secretly fingered an image of the Virgin he wore about his neck.

"Putting aside the sacred office with which I am invested," resumed
the count, without noticing Trenta's observation, "no wife could
sympathize with me. It would be a case of Byron over again. What agony
it would be to me to see the exquisite Enrica unable to understand
me! A poet, a mystic, I am only fit to live alone. My path"--and
a far-away look came into his eyes--"my path lies alone upon the
mountains--alone! alone!" he added sorrowfully, and a tear trembled on
his eyelid.

"Then why, may I ask you," retorted Trenta, with energy, raising
himself upright in the arm-chair, "why did you mislead me by such
passionate language to Enrica? Recall the Guinigi Tower, your
attitude--your glances--I must say, Count Marescotti, I consider your
conduct unpardonable--quite unpardonable."

Trenta's face and forehead were scarlet, his steely blue eyes were
rounded to their utmost width, and, as far as such mild eyes could,
they glared at the count.

"You have entirely misled me. As to your political opinions, I have,
thank God, nothing to do with them; that is your affair. But in this
matter of Enrica you have unjustifiably misled me. I shall not forgive
you in a hurry, I can tell you." There was a rustling of anger all
over the cavaliere, as the leaves of the forest-trees rustle before
the breath of the coming tempest.

"My admiration for women," replied the count, "has hitherto been
purely aesthetic. You, cavaliere, cannot understand the discrepancies
of an artistic nature. Women have been to me heretofore as beautiful
abstractions. I have adored them as I adore the works of the great
masters. I would as soon have thought of plucking a virgin from the
canvas--a Venus from her pedestal, as of appropriating one of them.
Enrica Guinigi"--there was a tender inflection in Count Marescotti's
voice whenever he named her, an involuntary bending of the head that
was infinitely touching--"Enrica Guinigi is an exception. I could have
loved her--ah! she is worthy of all love! Her soul is as rare as
her person. I read in the depths of her plaintive eyes the trust of
a child and the fortitude of a heroine. If I d