“Forgive me, love,” he said, “I will be calmer.  Lay your dear head against me.  We will sit together here—­under the trees.”

“Yes,” said Enrica in a faltering voice; “I have so much to say.”  Then, suddenly recalling the blessing of his presence, a smile stole about her bloodless lips.  She gave a happy sigh.  “Yes, Nobili—­we can talk now without fear.  But I can talk only of you.  I have no thought but you.  I never dreamed of such happiness as this!  O Nobili!” And she hid her face in the strong arm entwined about her.

“Speak to me, Enrica; I will listen to you forever.”

Enrica clasped his hand, looked at it, sighed, pressed it between both of hers, sighed again, then raised it to her lips.

“Dear hand,” she said, “how it is burnt!  But for this hand, I should be nothing now but a little heap of ashes in the tower.  Nobili”—­her tone suddenly changed—­“Nobili, I will try to love life now that you have given it to me.”  Her voice rang out like music, and her telltale eyes caught his, with a glance as passionate as his own.  “Count Marescotti,” she said, absently, as giving utterance to a passing thought—­“Count Marescotti told me, only a week ago, that I was born to be unhappy.  He said he read it in my eyes.  I believed him then—­not now—­not now.”

Why, she could not have explained, but, as the count’s name passed her lips, Enrica was sorry she had mentioned it.  Nobili noted this.  He gave an imperceptible start, and drew back a little from her.

“Do you know Count Marescotti?” Enrica asked him, timidly.

“I know him by sight,” was Nobili’s reply.  “He is a mad fellow—­a republican.  Why does he come to Lucca?”

Enrica shook her head.

“I do not know,” she answered, still confused.

“Where did you meet him, Enrica?”

She blushed, and dropped her eyes.  As she gave him no answer, he asked another question, gazing down upon her earnestly: 

“How did Count Marescotti come to know what your eyes said?”

As Nobili spoke, his voice sounded changed.  He waited for an answer with a look as if he had been wronged.  Enrica’s answer did not come immediately.  She felt frightened.

“Oh! why,” she thought, “had she mentioned Marescotti’s name?” Nobili was angry with her—­she was sure he was angry with her.

“I met him at my aunt’s one evening,” she said at last, gathering courage as she stole her little hand into one of his, and knit her fingers tightly within his own.  “We went up into the Guinigi Tower together.  There were dear old Trenta and Baldassare Lena with us.”

“Indeed!” replied Nobili, coldly.  “I did not know that the Marchesa Guinigi ever received young men.”

As Nobili said this he fixed his eyes upon Enrica’s face.  What could he read there but assurance of the perfect innocence within?  Yet the name of Count Marescotti had grated upon his ear like a discord clashing among sweet sounds.  He shook the feeling off, however, for the time.  Again he was her gracious lover.