ich Ruspoli desired
to end. Nobili shook his head. He was so stunned and dazed he could
not speak.

"If it is five o'clock," said Malatesta, "I must go too."

Malatesta drew Nobili a little apart. "Don't think too much of this,
Nobili. It will all blow over and be forgotten in a month. Take your
wife a trip to Paris or London. We shall hear no more of it, believe
me. Good-by."

"Count Nobili," called out Franchi, from the other end of the portico,
making a languid bow, "after all that I have heard, I congratulate you
on your marriage most sincerely."

Nobili did not hear him. All were gone. He was alone with Ruspoli. His
head had dropped upon his breast. There was the shadow of a tear in
Prince Ruspoli's steely eye. It was not enough to be brushed off, for
it absorbed itself and came to nothing, but it was there nevertheless.

"Wall, Mario," he said, apparently unmoved, "it seems to me the club
is made too hot to hold you. Come home."

Nobili nodded. He was so weak he had to hang heavily on Prince
Ruspoli's arm as they crossed the piazza. Prince Ruspoli did not leave
him until he saw him safe to his own door.

"You will judge what is right to do," were Ruspoli's last words. "But
do not be guided by those young scamps. They live in mischief. If you
love the girl, marry her--that is my advice."

CHAPTER VIII.

COUNT NOBILI'S THOUGHTS.

I have seen a valley canopied by a sky of blue and opaline, girt in
by wooded heights, on which the sun poured down in mid-day splendor.
A broad river sparkled downward, giving back ray for ray. The forest
glowed without a shadow. Each little detail of leaf or stone, even a
blade of grass, was turned to flame. The corn lay smooth and golden.
The grapes and olives hung safe upon the branch. The flax--a goodly
crop--reached to the trees. The peasants labored in the rich brown
soil, singing to the oxen. The women sat spinning beside their doors.
A little maid led out her snowy lamb to graze among the woods, and
children played at "morra" beside the river, which ran at peace,
lapping the silver sand.

A cloud gathers behind the mountains--yonder, where they come
interlacing down, narrowing the valley. It is a little cloud, no one
observes it; yet it gathers and spreads and blackens, until the sky is
veiled. The sun grows pale. A greenish light steals over the earth. In
the still air there is a sudden freshness. The tall canes growing in
the brakes among the vineyards rust