“It is not for me,” she says, with lofty composure, “to reason with a love-sick girl, whose mind runs to the tune of her lover’s name.  Of all living men I abhor Count Nobili.  To love him, in my eyes, is a crime—­yes, a crime,” she repeats, raising her voice, seeing that Enrica is about to speak.  “I know him—­he is a vain, purse-proud reprobate.  He has come and planted himself like a mushroom within our ancient walls.  Nor did this content him—­he has had the presumption to lodge himself in a Guinigi palace.  The blood in his veins is as mud.  That he cannot help, nor do I reproach him for it; but he has forced himself into our class—­he has mingled his name with the old names of the city; he has dared to speak—­live—­act—­as if he were one of us.  You, Enrica, are the last of the Guinigi.  I had hoped that a child I had reared at my side would have learned and reflected my will—­would have repaid me for years of care by her obedience.”

“O my aunt!” exclaims Enrica, sinking on her knees, “forgive me—­forgive me!  I am ungrateful.”

“Rise,” cries the marchesa, sternly, not in the least touched by this outburst of natural feeling.  “I care not for words—­your acts show you have defied me.  The project which for years I have silently nursed in my bosom, waiting for the fitting time to disclose it to you—­the project of building up through you the great Guinigi name.”

The marchesa pauses; she gasps, as if for breath.  A quick flush steals over her white face, and for a moment she leans back in her chair, unable to proceed.  Then she presses her hand to her forehead, on which the perspiration had risen in beads.

“Alas!  I did not know it!” Enrica is now sobbing bitterly.  “Why—­oh! why, did you not trust me?”

In a strange, weary-sounding voice the marchesa continues: 

“Let us not speak of it.  Enrica”—­she turns her gray eyes full upon her, as she stands motionless in front of the pillared casement—­“Enrica, you must choose.  Renounce Nobili, or prepare to enter a convent.  His wife you can never be.”

As a shot that strikes a brightly-plumaged bird full in its softly-feathered breast, so did these dreadful words strike Enrica.  There is a faint, low cry, she has fallen upon the floor!

The marchesa did not move, but, looking at her where she lay, she slowly shook her head.  Not so the cavaliere.  He rushed forward, and raised her tenderly in his arms.  The tears streamed down his aged cheeks.

“Take her away!” cried the marchesa; “take her away!  She has broken my heart!”

CHAPTER IX.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

When Cavaliere Trenta returned, after he had led away Enrica, and consigned her to Teresa, he was very grave.  As he crossed the room toward the marchesa, he moved feebly, and leaned heavily on his stick.  Then he drew a chair opposite to her, sat down, heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to her face.