disinclined to do; she could not apparently say why. When Lena went to
him, she was astonished to hear that he knew every stage of her advance
up to the point of pardoning her erratic lover; and even knew as much
as that Wilfrid's dejected countenance on the night when Vittoria's
marriage was published in the saloon of the duchess on Lake Como, had
given her fresh offence. He told her that many powerful advocates were
doing their best for the down-fallen officer, who, if he were shot, or
killed, would still be gazetted an officer. "A nice comfort!" said Lena,
and there was a rallying exchange of banter between them, out of
which she drew the curious discovery that Karl had one of his strong
admirations for the English lady. "Surely!" she said to herself; "I
thought they were all so cold." And cold enough the English lady seemed
when Lena led to the theme. "Do I admire your brother, Countess Lena?
Oh! yes;--in his uniform exceedingly."

Milan was now full. Wilfrid had heard from Adela that Count Ammiani
and his bride were in the city and were strictly watched. Why did not
conspirators like these two take advantage of the amnesty? Why were they
not in Rome? Their Chief was in Rome; their friends were in Rome. Why
were they here? A report, coming from Countess d'Isorella, said that
they had quarrelled with their friends, and were living for love alone.
As she visited the Lenkensteins--high Austrians--some believed her; and
as Count Ammiani and his bride had visited the Duchess of Graatli, it
was thought possible. Adela had refused to see Vittoria; she did not
even know the house where Count Ammiani dwelt; so Wilfrid was reduced
to find it for himself. Every hour when off duty the miserable
sentimentalist wandered in that direction, nursing the pangs of a
delicious tragedy of emotions; he was like a drunkard going to his
draught. As soon as he had reached the head of the Corso, he wheeled
and marched away from it with a lofty head, internally grinning at his
abject folly, and marvelling at the stiff figure of an Austrian common
soldier which flashed by the windows as he passed. He who can unite
prudence and madness, sagacity and stupidity, is the true buffoon; nor,
vindictive as were his sensations, was Wilfrid unaware of the contrast
of Vittoria's soul to his own, that was now made up of antics. He could
not endure the tones of cathedral music; but he had at times to kneel
and listen to it, and be overcome.

On a night