“Who is he?” That strong, well-knit frame, those square shoulders, that curly chestnut hair, the pleasant smile upon his glowing face, proclaim him.  It is Count Nobili!  He has lands along the Serchio, between Barga and Corellia, and was well known as a keen sportsman.

“Bravo! bravo!  Evviva!  Count Nobili—­evviva!” Caps were tossed into the air, hands were wildly clapped, friendly arms are stretched out to bear him up when he descends.  Adamo is wildly excited; Adamo wants to mount the ladder to help.  The others pull him back.  Fra Pacifico stands ready to receive Enrica, a baffled look on his face.  It is the first time Fra Pacifico has stood by and seen another do his work.

See, Count Nobili is on the ladder, Enrica in his arms!  As his feet touch the ground, again the people shout:  “Bravo!  Count Nobili!  Evviva!” Their hot southern blood is roused by the sight of such noble daring.  The people press upon him—­they fold him in their arms—­they kiss his hands, his cheeks, even his very feet.

Nobili’s eyes flash.  He, too, forgets all else, and, with a glance that thrills Enrica from head to foot, he kisses her before them all.  The men circle round him.  They shout louder than before.

As the crowd parted, the dark figure of the marchesa, standing near the fountain, was disclosed.  Before she had time to stir, Count Nobili had led Enrica to her.  He knelt upon the ground, and, kissing Enrica’s hand, placed it within her own.  Then he rose, and, with that grace natural to him, bowed and stood aside, waiting for her to speak.

The marchesa neither moved nor did she speak.  When she felt the warm touch of Enrica’s hand within her own, it seemed to rouse her.  She drew her toward her and kissed her with more love than she had ever shown before.

“I thank you, Count Nobili,” she said, in a strange, cold voice.  Even at that moment she could not bring herself to look him in the face.  “You have saved my niece’s life.”

“Madame,” replied Nobili, his sweet-toned voice trembling, “I have saved my own.  Had Enrica perished, I should not have lived.”

In these few words the chivalric nature of the man spoke out.  The marchesa waved her hand.  She was stately even now.  Nobili understood her gesture, and, stung to the very soul, he drew back.

“Permit me,” he said, haughtily, before he turned away, “to add my help to those who are laboring to save your house.”

The marchesa bowed her head in acquiescence; then, with unsteady steps, she moved backward and seated herself upon the ground.

Pipa, meanwhile, had flung her arms about Enrica, with such an energy that she pinned her to the spot.  Pipa pressed her hands about Enrica, feeling every limb; Pipa turned Enrica’s white face up ward to the blaze; she stroked her long, fair hair that fell like a mantle round her.

“Blessed Mother!” she sobbed, drawing her coarse fingers through the matted curls, “not a hair singed!  Oh, the noble count!  Oh, how I love him—­”