“I trust the illustrious lady is well,” he says timidly, bowing low and trying to smile.  Mr. Sindaco is frightened, but he can be proud enough to his fellow-townsfolk, and he is downright cruel to that poor lad his clerk, at the Municipal Palace.

The marchesa, with a cold, distant air, that would instantly check any approach to familiarity—­if any one were bold enough to be familiar—­answers gravely, “That she is thankful to say she is in her usual health.”

The sindaco—­although better off than many, painfully conscious of long arrears of unpaid rent—­waxing a little bolder at the sound of his own voice and his well-chosen phrases, continues: 

“I am glad to hear it, Signora Marchesa.”  The sindaco further observes, “That he hopes for the illustrious lady’s indulgence and good-will.”

His smile has faded now; his voice trembles.  If his skin were not so yellow, he would be white all over, for the marchesa’s looks are not encouraging.  The sindaco dreads a summons to the High Court of Barga, where the provincial prisons are—­with which he may be soon better acquainted, he fears.

In reply, the marchesa—­who perfectly understands all this in a general way—­scowls, and fixes her rigid eyes upon him.

“Signore Sindaco, I cannot stop to listen to any grievance now; I will promise no indulgence.  I must pay my bills.  You must pay me, Signore Sindaco; that is but fair.”

The poor little snuffy mayor bows a dolorous acquiescence.  He is hopeless, but polite—­like a true Italian, who would thank the hangman as he fastens the rope round his neck.  But the marchesa’s words strike terror into all who hear them.  All owe her long arrears of rent, and much besides.  Why—­oh! why—­did the cruel lady come to Corellia?

Having announced her intentions in a clear, metallic voice, the marchesa draws her head back into the coach.

“Send Silvestro to me,” she adds, addressing the sindaco.  “Silvestro will inform me of all I want to know.” (Silvestro is her steward.)

“Is the noble young Lady Enrica unwell?” asks the persevering sindaco, gazing earnestly through the window.

He knows his doom.  He has nothing to hope from the marchesa’s clemency, so he may as well gratify his burning curiosity by a question about the much-beloved Enrica, who must certainly have been ill-used by her aunt to keep so much out of sight.

“The people of Corellia would also offer their respectful homage to her,” bravely adds Mr. Sindaco, tempting his fate.  “The Lady Enrica is much esteemed here in the town.”

As he speaks the sindaco gazes in wonder at the muffled figure in the corner.  Can this be she?  Why does she not move forward and answer?—­and show her pretty face, and approve the people’s greeting?

“My niece has a headache; leave her alone,” answers the marchesa, curtly.  “Do not speak to her, Mr. Sindaco.  She will visit Corellia another day; meanwhile, adieu.”