“No, dear Pipa,” Enrica answered, softly, “I am not hurt—­only frightened.  The fire had but just reached the door when he came.  He was just in time.”

“To think we had forgotten her!” murmured Pipa, still holding her tightly.

“Who remembered me first?” asked Enrica, eagerly.

“The marchesa, signorina, the marchesa.  She remembered you.  The marchesa was brought down by Adamo.  Your name was the first word she uttered.”

Enrica’s blue eyes glistened.  In an instant she had disengaged herself from Pipa, and was kneeling at the marchesa’s feet.

“Dear aunt, forgive me.  Now that I am saved, forgive me!  You must forgive me, and forgive him, too!”

These last words came faint and low.  The marchesa put her finger on her lip.

“Not now, Enrica, not now.  To-morrow we will speak.”

Meanwhile Count Nobili, Fra Pacifico, and the Corellia men, strove what human strength could do to put the fire out.  Even the sindaco, forgetting the threats about his rent, labored hard and willingly—­only Silvestro did nothing.  Silvestro seemed stunned; he sat upon the ground staring, and crying like a child.

To save the rooms within the tower was impossible.  Every plank of wood was burning.  The ceilings had fallen in; only the blackened walls and stone stairs remained.  The villa was untouched—­the wind, setting the other way, and the thick walls of the tower, had saved it.

Now every hand that could be spared was turned to bring beds from the steward’s for the marchesa and Enrica.  They had gone into Pipa’s room until the villa was made ready.  Pipa told Adamo, and he told the others, that the marchesa had not seen the burning papers, and the lighted pile of wood, until the flames rose high behind her back.  She had rushed forward, and fallen.

When all was over, Count Nobili was carried up the hill back to Corellia, in triumph, on the shoulders of Pietro the baker, and Oreste, the strongest of the brothers.  Every soul of the poor townsfolk—­women as well as men who had not gone down to help—­had risen, and was out.  They had put lights into their windows.  They crowded the doorways.  The market-place was full, and the church-porch.  The fame of Nobili’s courage had already reached them.  All bless him as he passes—­bless him louder when Nobili, all aglow with happiness, empties his pockets of all the coin he has, and promises more to-morrow.  At this the women lay hold of him, and dance round him.  It was long before he was released.  At last Fra Pacifico carried him off, almost by force, to sleep at the curato.

CHAPTER IV.

WHAT A PRIEST SHOULD BE.