rect in the carriage, and then
burst forth into that noble paraphrase which Byron has made of the
glorious sonnet of Filicaja:

"Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plowed by shame,
And annals graven in characters of flame.
O God! that thou wert in thy nakedness
Less lovely, or more powerful, and couldst claim
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press
To shed thy blood and drink the tears of thy distress."

She stood like a Sibyl, inspired by the scene before her. Pale, yet
lovely, with all her intellectual beauty refined by the sorrows
through which she had passed, she herself might have been taken for
an image of that Italy which she thus invoked. Lord Chetwynde looked
at her, and amidst his surprise at such an outburst of enthusiasm he
had some such thoughts as these. But suddenly, from some unknown
cause, Hilda sank back into her seat, and burst into tears. At the
display of such emotion Lord Chetwynde looked on deeply disturbed.
What possible connection there could be between these words and her
agitation he could not see. But he was full of pity for her, and he
did what was most natural. He took her hand, and spoke kind words to
her, and tried to soothe her. At his touch her agitation subsided.
She smiled through her tears, and looked at him with a glance that
spoke unutterable things. It was the first time that Lord Chetwynde
had shown toward her any thing approaching to tenderness.

On that same day another incident occurred.

A few miles beyond Domo d'Ossola there was an inn where they had
stopped to change horses. They waited here for a time till the horses
were ready, and then resumed their journey. The road went on before
them for miles, winding along gently in easy curves and with a
gradual descent toward those smiling vales which lay beneath them. As
they drove onward each turn in the road seemed to bring some new view
before them, and to disclose some fresh glimpse to their eyes of that
voluptuous Italian beauty which they were now beholding, and which
appeared all the lovelier from the contrast which it presented to
that sublime Alpine scenery--the gloom of awful gorges, the grandeur
of snow-capped heights through which they had been journeying.

Inside the carriage were Lord Chetwynde and Hilda. Outside was the
driver. Hilda was just pointing out to Lord Chetwyn