threats she had forced Nobili to
make Enrica his wife, but no threats could compel him to complete the
marriage.

As she lingered in the sala, stunned by the blow that had fallen
upon her, the marchesa suddenly recollected the penciled lines which
Guglielmi had torn from his tablet and slipped into her hand. She drew
the paper from the folds of her dress and read these words:

"_We are beaten if Count Nobili leaves the house to-night.
Keep him at all hazards_."

A sudden revulsion seized her. She raised her head with that
snake-like action natural to her. The blood rushed to her face and
neck. Guglielmi then still had hope?--All was not lost. In an instant
her energy returned to her. What could she do to keep him? Would
Enrica--Enrica was still within the chapel. The marchesa heard the
murmur of voices coming through the corridor. No, though she worshiped
him, Enrica would never lend herself to tempt Nobili with the bait of
her beauty--no, even though she was his wife. It would be useless to
ask her. "Keep him--how?" the marchesa asked herself with feverish
impatience. Every moment was precious. She heard footsteps. They must
be leaving the chapel. Nobili, perhaps, was going. No. The door to the
garden, by which Nobili had entered the chapel, was now locked. Adamo
had given her the key. She must therefore see them when they passed
out through the sala. At this moment the howling of the dogs was
audible. They were chained up in the cave under the tower. Poor
beasts, they had been forgotten in the hurry of the day. The dogs
were hungry; were yelping for their food. Through the open door the
marchesa saw Adamo pass--a sudden thought struck her.

"Adamo!"

"Padrona." And Adamo's bullet-head and broad shoulders fill up the
doorway.

"Where is Count Nobili?"

"Along with the lawyer from Lucca."

"He is safe, then, for the present," the marchesa told herself.

Adamo could not speak for staring at his mistress as she stood
opposite to him full in the light. He had never seen such a look upon
her face all the years he had served her.

She almost smiled at him.

"Adamo," the marchesa addresses him eagerly, "come here. How many
years have you lived with me?"

Adamo grins and shows two rows of white teeth.

"Thirty years, padrona--I came when I was a little lad."

"Have I treated you well, Adamo?"

As she asks this question, the marchesa moves close to him.

"Have I ever complained," is Adamo's answer