THE HOUR STRIKES.

The chapel was approached by a door communicating with the corridor.  (There was another entrance from the garden; at this entrance Adamo was stationed.) It was narrow and lofty, more like a gallery than a chapel, except that the double windows at either end were arched and filled with stained glass.  The altar was placed in a recess facing the door opening from the corridor.  It was of dark marble raised on steps, and was backed by a painting too much blackened by smoke to be distinguished.  Within the rails stood Fra Pacifico, arrayed in a vestment of white and gold.  The grand outline of his tall figure filled the front of the altar.  No one would have recognized the parish priest in the stately ecclesiastic who wore his robes with so much dignity.  Beside Fra Pacifico was Angelo transformed into an acolyte, wearing a linen surplice—­Angelo awed into perfect propriety—­swinging a silver censer, and only to be recognized by the twinkling of his wicked eyes (not even Fra Pacifico could tame them).  To the right of the altar stood the marchesa.  Maestro Guglielmi, tablets in hand, was beside her.  Behind, at a respectful distance, appeared Silvestro, gathered up into the smallest possible compass.

As the slow moments passed, all stood so motionless—­all save Angelo, swinging the silver censer—­they might have passed for a sculptured group upon a marble tomb.  One—­two—­struck from the old clock in the Lombard Tower at Corellia.  At the last stroke the door from the garden was thrown open.  Count Nobili stood in the doorway.  At the moment of Count Nobili’s appearance Maestro Guglielmi drew out his watch; then he proceeded to note upon his tablets that Count Nobili, having observed the appointed time, was not subject to a fine.

Count Nobili paused on the threshold, then he advanced to the altar.  That he had come in haste was apparent.  His dress was travel-stained and dusty; the locks of his abundant chestnut hair matted and rough; his whole appearance wild and disordered.  All the outward polish of the man was gone; the happy smile contagious in its brightness; the pleasant curl of the upper lip raising the fair mustache; the kindling eye so capable of tenderness.  His expression was of a man undergoing a terrible ordeal; defiance, shame, anger, contended on his face.

There was something in the studied negligence of Count Nobili’s appearance that irritated the marchesa to the last degree of endurance.  She bridled with rage, and exchanged a significant glance with Guglielmi.

Footsteps were now heard coming from the sala.  It was Enrica, led by the cavaliere.  Enrica was whiter than her bridal veil.  She had suffered Pipa to array her as she pleased, without a word.  Her hair was arranged in a coronet upon her head; a whole sheaf of golden curls hung down from it behind.  There were the exquisite symmetry of form, the natural grace, the dreamy beauty—­all the soft harmony