g," he said; "he never answers. If I can be of
any further service, your ladyship will perhaps be so good as to ring
the bell."

He opened the door for her, and closed it quietly as she entered. Then
he retreated along the corridor, and returned to his room, wondering not
a little at the visitor whom his advertisement had brought.

The great room in which the Count Marioni was sitting was almost in
darkness, for the afternoon was dull and foggy, and the curtains were
partially closed. There was no lamp lit, and the only light came from
the brightly-burning fire near which the Count was sitting in an
armchair ludicrously too large for his frail body. The flames fell upon
his white, worn face, with its deep branding lines, and gleamed in his
great sad eyes, so bright and dry that they seemed like mirrors for the
firelight. His hair and short unkempt beard were as white as snow,
matching even the unnatural pallor of his skin, and his black frock coat
was buttoned across a chest which would have been narrow for a
consumptive boy. He did, indeed, look on the threshold of death.

He had not turned his head at the opening or closing of the door, but
presently another sound broke the silence. It was a woman's sob, and as
he slowly turned his head, a tall, graceful figure moved forward out of
the shadows, and he heard his name softly murmured.

"Leonardo!"

His hand went up to his forehead. Was it a dream; or was he indeed back
once more in the days of his youth, back among the pine woods which
topped his castle, walking side by side with her whose presence seemed
to make the long summer days one sweet dream of delight? The familiar
odor of violets and wild hyacinths seemed to fill the room. The
fog-bound city, with its ceaseless roar, existed for him no longer. The
sun of his own dear country warmed his heart, and the sea wind blew in
his eager face. And she was there--his queen--the great desire of his
weary life. All his pulses leaped with the joy of her presence.
Five-and-twenty years of lonely misery were blotted out. Ah! memory is a
wonderful magician!

"Leonardo! Will you not speak to me?"

Again that voice! Where was he now? Face to face with her on the sands
at Palermo, deceived, betrayed, given over to the enemies of his
country, and by her--the woman for whom his passionate love had been his
sole crime. Listen! The air is full of that cry of threatened vengeance.
Hark how the echoes ring back from the cliffs.