hat he were quite sure of having seen them. As he took his place at the
desk to direct, he glanced to his right again, but the singing men close
to him hindered him from seeing the body of the church.

He had not been mistaken, however, for the Bravi were there and just in
sight, at some little distance behind Ortensia, near the pilaster next
beyond the one by which she stood. They were both dressed in black, and
though it was a warm afternoon in June, each carried a black cloak on
his arm. Their long hair was parted and smoothed with even more than
customary neatness, and Trombin's yellow locks were so wonderfully
arranged that they might easily have been taken for a wig. His pink face
wore a more than usually boyish and innocent expression, and as he stood
beside his companion listening to what the latter was saying in an
undertone, his eyes gazed steadily at Ortensia's graceful figure. Both
men were evidently indifferent to the possibility of her turning and
seeing them, and in fact they had taken up their present position in the
hope of being seen by Stradella himself from the organ, acting the part
of protectors to his wife.

'We have trusted each other in much more dangerous affairs than this,'
Gambardella said, almost in a whisper, 'but I have never before known
you to lose your heart to the subject of our operations.'

'"Subject" is good!' answered Trombin. '"Subject" is excellent! You
speak like a teacher of anatomy! But, so far, you are right, for I
cannot take my eyes from that adorable lady. My friend, do you notice
the exquisite curve from the throat to the shoulder and from the
shoulder to the elbow? And the marvellously suggestive fall of the
skirt? And the reflection of the sunshine from overhead in her wonderful
hair where it shows from under her veil? Answer me, have you ever seen
anything more perfect in art or nature?'

'No, nor anything more complete than your madness,' answered
Gambardella. 'If you speak a little louder she will hear you!'

'And turn her angel's eyes to mine!' whispered Trombin sentimentally.
'There is no poetry in your soul, my friend! You were certainly born
without any heart, or, if I may say so, with a heart like a German
prune, all dried up and hard, and needing to be boiled for hours in
syrup to soften it! On the other hand, I may compare my own to the fresh
fruit on the tree in July, delicate, juicy, and almost palpitating in
the sunshine with its own sweetness!'

Gamb