wing back toward the window.
"I do not understand you."

Guglielmi was the marchesa's adviser; Count Nobili hated him.

"Your accusation that 'I am here to insult you.' If you will do me the
honor, Count Nobili, to speak to me in private"--Guglielmi glanced at
Silvestro, Adamo, and Angelo, peering out half hid by the altar--"if
you will do me this honor, I will prove to you that I am here to serve
you."

"That is impossible," answered Nobili. "Nor do I care. I leave this
house immediately."

"But allow me to observe, Count Nobili," and Maestro Guglielmi drew
himself up with an air of offended dignity, "you are bound as a
gentleman to retract those words, or to hear my explanation." (Delay
at any price was Guglielmi's object.) "Surely, Count Nobili, you
cannot refuse me this satisfaction?"

Count Nobili hesitated. What could this strange man have to say to
him?

Guglielmi watched him.

"You will spare me half an hour?" he urged. "That will suffice."

Count Nobili looked greatly embarrassed.

"A thousand thanks!" exclaimed Guglielmi, accepting his silence for
consent. "I will not trespass needlessly on your time. Permit me to
find some one to conduct you to a room."

Guglielmi looked round--Angelo came forward.

"Conduct Count Nobili to the room prepared for him," said the lawyer.
"There, Count Nobili, I will attend you in a few minutes."

CHAPTER VIII.

FOR THE HONOR OF A NAME.

When the marchesa entered the sala after she had left the chapel, her
steps were slow and measured. Count Nobili's words rang in her ear: "I
will not live with her." She could not put these words from her. For
the first time in her life the marchesa was shaken in the belief of
her mission.

If Count Nobili refused to live with Enrica as his wife, all the law
in the world could not force him. If no heir was born to the Guinigi,
she had lived in vain.

As the marchesa stood in the dull light of the misty afternoon,
leaning against the solid carved table on which refreshments were
spread, the old palace at Lucca rose up before her dyed with the ruddy
tints of summer sunsets. She trod again in thought those mysterious
rooms, shrouded in perpetual twilight. She gazed upon the faces of the
dead, looking down upon her from the walls. How could she answer
to those dead; for what had she done? That heroic face too with the
stern, soft eyes--how could she meet it? What was Count Nobili or his
wealth to her without an heir? By