hesa a formal welcome. The
sindaco, a saddler by trade--a snuffy little man, with a face drawn
and yellow as parchment, wearing his working-clothes--advances to the
carriage with a step as cautious as a cat.

"I trust the illustrious lady is well," he says timidly, bowing low
and trying to smile. Mr. Sindaco is frightened, but he can be proud
enough to his fellow-townsfolk, and he is downright cruel to that poor
lad his clerk, at the Municipal Palace.

The marchesa, with a cold, distant air, that would instantly check
any approach to familiarity--if any one were bold enough to be
familiar--answers gravely, "That she is thankful to say she is in her
usual health."

The sindaco--although better off than many, painfully conscious of
long arrears of unpaid rent--waxing a little bolder at the sound of
his own voice and his well-chosen phrases, continues:

"I am glad to hear it, Signora Marchesa." The sindaco further
observes, "That he hopes for the illustrious lady's indulgence and
good-will."

His smile has faded now; his voice trembles. If his skin were not so
yellow, he would be white all over, for the marchesa's looks are not
encouraging. The sindaco dreads a summons to the High Court of Barga,
where the provincial prisons are--with which he may be soon better
acquainted, he fears.

In reply, the marchesa--who perfectly understands all this in a
general way--scowls, and fixes her rigid eyes upon him.

"Signore Sindaco, I cannot stop to listen to any grievance now; I will
promise no indulgence. I must pay my bills. You must pay me, Signore
Sindaco; that is but fair."

The poor little snuffy mayor bows a dolorous acquiescence. He is
hopeless, but polite--like a true Italian, who would thank the hangman
as he fastens the rope round his neck. But the marchesa's words strike
terror into all who hear them. All owe her long arrears of rent, and
much besides. Why--oh! why--did the cruel lady come to Corellia?

Having announced her intentions in a clear, metallic voice, the
marchesa draws her head back into the coach.

"Send Silvestro to me," she adds, addressing the sindaco. "Silvestro
will inform me of all I want to know." (Silvestro is her steward.)

"Is the noble young Lady Enrica unwell?" asks the persevering
sindaco, gazing earnestly through the window.

He knows his doom. He has nothing to hope from the marchesa's
clemency, so he may as well gratify his burning curiosity by a
question about the much-beloved