“Your accusation that ‘I am here to insult you.’  If you will do me the honor, Count Nobili, to speak to me in private”—­Guglielmi glanced at Silvestro, Adamo, and Angelo, peering out half hid by the altar—­“if you will do me this honor, I will prove to you that I am here to serve you.”

“That is impossible,” answered Nobili.  “Nor do I care.  I leave this house immediately.”

“But allow me to observe, Count Nobili,” and Maestro Guglielmi drew himself up with an air of offended dignity, “you are bound as a gentleman to retract those words, or to hear my explanation.” (Delay at any price was Guglielmi’s object.) “Surely, Count Nobili, you cannot refuse me this satisfaction?”

Count Nobili hesitated.  What could this strange man have to say to him?

Guglielmi watched him.

“You will spare me half an hour?” he urged.  “That will suffice.”

Count Nobili looked greatly embarrassed.

“A thousand thanks!” exclaimed Guglielmi, accepting his silence for consent.  “I will not trespass needlessly on your time.  Permit me to find some one to conduct you to a room.”

Guglielmi looked round—­Angelo came forward.

“Conduct Count Nobili to the room prepared for him,” said the lawyer.  “There, Count Nobili, I will attend you in a few minutes.”

CHAPTER VIII.

FOR THE HONOR OF A NAME.

When the marchesa entered the sala after she had left the chapel, her steps were slow and measured.  Count Nobili’s words rang in her ear:  “I will not live with her.”  She could not put these words from her.  For the first time in her life the marchesa was shaken in the belief of her mission.

If Count Nobili refused to live with Enrica as his wife, all the law in the world could not force him.  If no heir was born to the Guinigi, she had lived in vain.

As the marchesa stood in the dull light of the misty afternoon, leaning against the solid carved table on which refreshments were spread, the old palace at Lucca rose up before her dyed with the ruddy tints of summer sunsets.  She trod again in thought those mysterious rooms, shrouded in perpetual twilight.  She gazed upon the faces of the dead, looking down upon her from the walls.  How could she answer to those dead; for what had she done?  That heroic face too with the stern, soft eyes—­how could she meet it?  What was Count Nobili or his wealth to her without an heir?  By threats she had forced Nobili to make Enrica his wife, but no threats could compel him to complete the marriage.

As she lingered in the sala, stunned by the blow that had fallen upon her, the marchesa suddenly recollected the penciled lines which Guglielmi had torn from his tablet and slipped into her hand.  She drew the paper from the folds of her dress and read these words: 

    “We are beaten if Count Nobili leaves the house to-night. 
    Keep him at all hazards.”