ice every thing--yes--every
thing." And Trenta, feeling himself on safe ground, repeated the word
with an audacity that would have surprised those who only knew him
in the polite details of ordinary life. "I think that you should
sacrifice every thing to the interests of your house."

This was hitting the marchesa home. She felt it and winced; but her
resolution was unshaken.

"Did I not know that you are descended from a line as ancient, though
not so illustrious as my own, I should think I was listening to a Jew
peddler of Leghorn," she replied, with insolent cynicism.

The cavaliere felt deeply offended, but had the presence of mind to
affect a smile, as though what she had said was an excellent joke.

"Nobili shall never mix his blood with the Guinigi--I swear it! Rather
let our name die out from the land."

She raised both her hands in the twilight to ratify the imprecation
she had hurled upon her race. Her voice died away into the corner of
the darkening room; her thoughts wandered. She sat in spirit upon the
seigneurial throne, below, in the presence-chamber. Should Nobili sit
there, on that hallowed seat of her ancestors?--the old Lombard
palace call him master, living--gather his bones with their ashes,
dead?--Never! Better far moulder into ruin as they had mouldered. Had
she not already permitted herself to be too much influenced? She had
offered Enrica in marriage to Count Marescotti, and he had refused
her--refused her niece!

Suddenly she shook off the incubus of these thoughts and turned toward
Trenta. He had been watching her anxiously.

"I can never forgive Enrica," she said. "She may not have disgraced
herself--that matters little--but she has disgraced me. She must enter
a convent; until then I will allow her to remain in my house."

"Exactly," burst in Trenta, again betrayed into undue warmth by this
concession.

The cavaliere was old; he had seen that life revolves itself strangely
in a circle, from which we may diverge, but from which we seldom
disentangle ourselves. Desperate resolves are taken, tragedies are
planned, but Fate or Providence intervenes. The old balance pendulates
again--the foot falls into the familiar step. Death comes to cut the
Gordian knot. The grave-sod covers all that is left, and the worm
feeds on the busy brain.

As a man of the world, Trenta was a profound believer in the chapter
of accidents.

"I will not put Enrica out of my house," resumed the marchesa,
ga