(Before the lawyer had concluded his peroration, professional zeal had so far transported him that he had convinced himself all he said was true—­was he not indeed pleading for his judgeship?)

Guglielmi extended his arms as if about to embrace Count Nobili!

All this time Nobili had stood as far removed from him as possible.  Nobili had neither moved nor raised his head once.  He had listened to Guglielmi, as the rocks listen to the splash of the seething waves beating against their side.  As the lawyer proceeded, a deep flush gradually overspread his face—­when he saw the lawyer’s outstretched arms, he retreated to the utmost limits of the room.  Guglielmi’s arms fell to his side.

“Whatever may be my opinion of you, Signore Avvocato,” spoke the count at length, contemplating Guglielmi fixedly, and speaking slowly, as if exercising a strong control over himself—­“whether I accept your friendship, or whether I believe any one word you say, is immaterial.  It cannot affect in any way what is past.  The declaration I made before the altar is the declaration to which I adhere—­I am not bound to state my reasons.  To me they are overwhelming.  I must therefore decline all discussion with you.  It is for you to make such arrangements with your client as will insure me a separation.  That done, our paths lie far apart.”

Who would have recognized the gracious, facile Count Nobili in these hard words?  The haughty tone in which they were uttered added to their sting.

We are at best the creatures of circumstances—­circumstances had entirely altered him.  At that moment, Nobili was at war with all the world.  He hated himself—­he hated and he mistrusted every one.  Guglielmi was not certainly adapted to restore faith in mankind.

Legal habits had taught Maestro Guglielmi to shape his countenance into a mask, fashioned to whatever expression he might desire to assume.  Never had the trick been so difficult!  The intense rage that possessed him was uncontrollable.  For the first moment he stood stolidly mute.  Then he struck the heel of his boot loudly upon the stuccoed floor—­would he could crush Count Nobili thus!—­crush him and trample upon him—­Nobili—­the only obstacle to the high honors awaiting him!  The next instant Guglielmi was reproaching himself for his want of control—­the next instant he was conscious how needful it was to dissemble.  Was he—­Guglielmi—­who had flashed his sword in a thousand battles, to be worsted by a stubborn boy?  Outwitted by a capricious lover?  Never!

“Excuse me, Count Nobili,” he said, overmastering himself by a violent effort—­“it is a bitter pang to me, your devoted friend, to be asked to become a party to an act fatal to your prospects.  If you adhere to your resolution, you can never return to Lucca—­never inhabit the palace your wealth has so superbly decorated.  Public opinion would not permit it.  You, a stranger in the city,