Silvestro rouses himself.  He resolves to meet his fate like a man, whatever that may be.  He will not forsake his duty.—­So Silvestro comes hurrying down by the terraces, upon which the shadows fall, to the house—­a gray mediaeval tower, machicolated and turreted—­the only remains of a strong fortress that in feudal times guarded these passes from Modena into Tuscany.  To this gray tower is attached a large modern dwelling—­a villa—­painted of a dull-yellow color, with an overlapping roof, the walls pierced full of windows.  The tower, villa, and the line of cliffs on which they stand, face east and west; on one side the forest and Corellia crowning a rocky height, on the other side mountains, with a deep abyss at the foot of the cliffs, yawning between.  It is the marchesa’s pleasure to inhabit the old tower rather than the pleasant villa, with its big windows and large, cheerful rooms.

Being tall and spare, Silvestro stoops under the low, arched doorway, heavily clamped with iron and nails, leading into the tower; then he mounts very slowly a winding stair of stone to the second story.  The sound of his footsteps brings a whole pack of dogs rushing out upon the gravel.

(On the gravel before the house there is a fountain springing up out of a marble basin full of gold-fish.  Pots are set round the edge with the sweetest-smelling flowers—­tuberoses, heliotropes, and gardenias.) The dogs, barking loudly, run round the basin and upset some of the pots.  One noble mastiff, with long white hair and strong straight limbs—­the leader of the pack—­pursues Silvestro up the dark, tiring stairs.  When the mastiff has reached him and smelt at him he stands still, wags his tail, and thrusts his nose into Silvestro’s hand.

“Poor Argo!” says the steward, meekly.  “Don’t bark at me; I cannot bear it now.”

Argo gives a friendly sniff, and leaves him.

At a door on the right, Silvestro stops short, to collect his thoughts and his breath.  He has not seen his mistress for a year.  His soul sinks at the thought of what he must tell her now.  “Can she punish me?” he asks himself, vaguely.  Perhaps.  He must bear it if she does.  He has done all he can.  Consoled by this reflection, he knocks.  A well-known voice answers, “Come in.”  Silvestro’s clammy hand is on the lock—­a worm-eaten door creaks on its hinges—­he enters.

The marchesa nods to Silvestro without speaking.  She is seated before a high desk of carved walnut-wood, facing the door.  The desk is covered with papers.  A file of papers is in her hand; others lie upon her lap.  All round there are cupboards, shelves, and drawers, piled with papers and documents, most of them yellow with age.  These consist of old leases, contracts, copies of various lawsuits with her tenants, appeals to Barga, mortgages, accounts.  The room is low, and rounded to the shape of the tower.  Naked joists and rafters of black wood support the ceiling.  The light comes in through some loop-holes,