I have seen a valley canopied by a sky of blue and opaline, girt in by wooded heights, on which the sun poured down in mid-day splendor.  A broad river sparkled downward, giving back ray for ray.  The forest glowed without a shadow.  Each little detail of leaf or stone, even a blade of grass, was turned to flame.  The corn lay smooth and golden.  The grapes and olives hung safe upon the branch.  The flax—­a goodly crop—­reached to the trees.  The peasants labored in the rich brown soil, singing to the oxen.  The women sat spinning beside their doors.  A little maid led out her snowy lamb to graze among the woods, and children played at “morra” beside the river, which ran at peace, lapping the silver sand.

A cloud gathers behind the mountains—­yonder, where they come interlacing down, narrowing the valley.  It is a little cloud, no one observes it; yet it gathers and spreads and blackens, until the sky is veiled.  The sun grows pale.  A greenish light steals over the earth.  In the still air there is a sudden freshness.  The tall canes growing in the brakes among the vineyards rustle as if shaken by a spectral hand.  The white-leaved aspens quiver.  An icy wind sweeps down the mountain-sides.  A flash of lightning shoots across the sky.  Then the storm bursts.  Thunder rolls, and cracks, and crashes; as if the brazen gates of heaven clashed to and fro.  The peasants fly, driving their cattle before them.  The pig’s run grunting homeward.  The helpless lamb is stricken where it stands, crouching in a deep gorge; the little maid sits weeping by.  Down beats the hail like pebbles.  It strikes upon the vines, scorches and blackens them.  The wheat is leveled to the ground.  The river suddenly swells into a raging torrent.  Its turbid waters bear away the riches of the poor—­the cow that served a little household and followed the children, lowing, to reedy meadows bathed by limpid streams—­a horse caught browsing in a peaceful vale, thinking no ill—­great trees hurling destruction with them.  Rafters, roofs of houses, sometimes a battered corpse, float by.

The roads are broken up.  The bridge is snapped.  Years will not repair the fearful ravage.  The evening sun sets on a desolate waste.  Men sit along the road-side wringing their hands beside their ruined crops.  Children creep out upon their naked feet, and look and wonder.  Where is the little kid that ran before and licked their hands?  Where is the gray-skinned, soft-eyed cow that hardly needed a cord to lead her?  The shapely cob, so brave with its tinkling bells and crimson tassels?  The cob that daddy drove to market, and many merry fairs?  Gone with the storm! all gone!

* * * * *

Count Nobili was like the Italian climate—­in extremes.  Like his native soil, he must live in the sunshine.  His was not a nature to endure a secret sorrow.  He must be kissed, caressed, and smoothed by tender hands and loving voices.  He must have applause, approval, be flattered, envied, and followed.  Hitherto all this had come naturally to him.  His gracious temper, generous heart, and great wealth, had made all bright about him.  Now a sudden storm had swept over him and brought despair into his heart.