Silvestro shakes from head to foot.  One hand slides from the lock; he joins it to the other, clasps them both together, and sways himself to and fro as a man in bodily anguish.

At the sight of the balance-sheet a kind of horror has come over the marchesa.  So intense is this feeling, she absolutely forgets to abuse Silvestro.  All she desires is to get rid of him before she has betrayed her alarm.

“I shall call a council,” she says, collecting herself; “I shall take the chair.  I shall find funds to meet these wants.  Give the sindaco and Ser Giacomo notice of this, Silvestro, immediately.”

The steward stares at his mistress in mute amazement.  He inclines his head, and turns to go; better ask her no questions and escape.

“Silvestro!”—­the marchesa calls after him imperiously—­“come here.”  (She is resolved that he, a menial, shall see no change in her.) “At this season the woods are full of game.  I will have no poachers, mind.  Let notices be posted up at the town-gate and at the church-door—­do you hear?  No one shall carry a gun within my woods.”

Silvestro’s lips form to two single words, and these come very faint:  “The poor!” Then he holds himself together, terrified.

“The poor!” retorts the marchesa, defiantly—­“the poor!  For shame, Silvestro!  They shall not overrun my woods and break through my vineyards—­they shall not!  You hear?” Her shrill voice rings round the low room, “No poachers—­no trespassers, remember that; I shall tell Adamo the same.  Now go, and, as you pass, tell Fra Pacifico I want him to-morrow.” ("He must help me with Enrica,” was her thought.)

When Silvestro was gone, a haggard look came over the marchesa’s pale face.  One by one she turned over the leaves of the rental lying before her, glanced at them, then laid the book down upon the desk.  She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and fell into a fit of musing—­the burning papers on the hearth, and those also smouldering on the floor, lighting up every grain in the wood-work of the cupboards at her back.

This was ruin—­absolute ruin!  The broad lands that spread wellnigh for forty miles in the mountains and along the river Serchio—­the feudal tower in which she sat, over which still floated, on festivals, the banner of the Guinigi (crosses of gold on a red field—­borne at the Crusades); the stately palace at Lucca—­its precious heirlooms—­strangers must have it all!

She had so fortified herself against all signs of outward emotion, other than she chose to show, that even in solitude she was composed; but the veins swelled in her forehead, and she turned very white.  Yet there had been a way.  “Enrica”—­her name escaped the marchesa’s thin lips unwittingly.  “Enrica.”—­The sound of her own voice startled her. (Enrica was now alone, shut up by her aunt’s order in her little chamber on the third floor over her own.  On their arrival, the marchesa had sternly dismissed her without a word.)