The door opened, and Enrica stood upon the threshold.  There was an air of innocent triumph about her.  She had bound a blue ribbon in her golden curls, and placed a rose in the band that encircled her slight waist.  Enrica was, in truth, but a common mortal, but she looked so fresh, and bright, and young, with such tender, trusting eyes—­there was such an aureole of purity about her, she might have passed for a virgin saint.

As he caught sight of Enrica, the moody expression on Count Nobili’s face changed, and broke into a smile.  In her presence he forgot the marchesa.  Was not such a prize worthy of any battle?  What did it signify to him if Enrica were called Guinigi?  And as to those tumbledown palaces and heirlooms—­what of them?  He could buy scores of old palaces any day if he chose.  Quickly he stepped forward to meet her as she entered.  Fra Pacifico rose, and with great solemnity signed them both with a thrice-repeated cross, then he placed Enrica’s hand in Nobili’s.  The count raised it to his lips, and kissed it fervently.

“My Enrica,” he whispered, “this is a glorious day!”

“Oh, it is heavenly!” she answered back, softly.

The marchesa’s white face darkened as she looked at Enrica.  How dared Enrica be so happy?  But she repressed the reproaches that rose to her lips, though her heart swelled to bursting, and the veins in her forehead distended with rage.

“Can Enrica be of my flesh and blood?” exclaimed the marchesa in a low voice to the cavaliere who now stood at her side.  “Fool! she believes in her lover!  It is a horrible sacrifice!  Mark my words—­a horrible sacrifice!”

Nobili and Enrica had taken their places behind the notary.  The slanting shadows from the open door struck upon them with deeper gloom, and the low murmur of the fountain seemed now to form itself into a moan.

“Do I sign here?” asked Count Nobili.

Ser Giacomo trembled like a leaf.

“Yes, excellency, you sign here,” he stammered, pointing to the precise spot; but Ser Giacomo looked so terrified that Nobili, forgetting where he was, laughed out loud and turned to Enrica, who laughed also.

“Stop that unseemly mirth,” called out the marchesa from the sofa; “it is most indecent.  Let the act that buries a great name at least be conducted with decorum.”

“That great name shall not die,” spoke the deep voice of Fra Pacifico from the background; “I call a blessing upon it, and upon the present act.  The name shall live.  When we are dead and rotting in our graves, a race shall rise from them”—­and he pointed to Nobili and Enrica—­“that shall recall the great legends of the past among the citizens of Lucca.”

Fearful of what the marchesa might be moved to reply (even the marchesa, however, had a certain dread of Fra Pacifico when he assumed the dignity of his priestly office), Trenta hurried forward and offered his arm to lead her to the table.  She rose slowly to her feet, and cast her eyes round at the group of happy faces about her; all happy save the poor notary, on whose forehead the big drops of sweat were standing.