“There was a Trenta, too, among them; Antonio Trenta, a knight of St. John,” put in the cavaliere, gently, unwilling to interrupt the count, but finding it impossible to resist the temptation of identifying his family with his country’s triumphs.  The count acknowledged the omission with a courteous bow.

“Upon the arrival of the ambassadors,” he resumed, “announcing the honor conferred upon him, Castruccio instantly left his camp, and returned with all haste to Lucca.  The dignity accorded to Castruccio exalted him above all external demonstration, but he understood that his native city longed to behold, and to surround with personal applause, the person of her idol.  In the piazza without this church, the very centre of Lucca, the heart, as it were, whence all the veins and arteries of our municipal body flow, Castruccio was received with all the pomp of a Roman triumph.  Ah! cavaliere”—­and the count’s lustrous eyes rested on Trenta, who was devouring every word he uttered with silent delight—­“those were proud days for Lucca!”

“Recall them—­recall them, O Count!” cried Trenta.  “It does me good to listen.”

“Thirty thousand Florentine prisoners followed Castruccio to Lucca.  His soldiers were laden with booty.  They drove before them innumerable herds of cattle; strings of wagons, filled with the spoils of a victorious campaign, blocked the causeways.  Last of all appeared, rumbling on its ancient wheels, the carroccio, or state-car of the Florentine Republic, bearing their captured flags lowered, and trailing in the dust.  Castruccio—­whose sole representatives are the Marchesa Guinigi and yourself, signorina—­Castruccio followed.  He was seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn by eight milk-white horses.  Banners fluttered around him.  A golden crown of victory was suspended above his head.  He was arrayed in a flowing mantle of purple, over a suit of burnished armor.  His brows were bound by a wreath of golden laurel.  In his right hand he carried a jeweled sceptre.  Upon his knees lay his victorious sword unsheathed.  Never was manly beauty more transcendent.  His lofty stature and majestic bearing fulfilled the expectation of a hero.  How can I describe his features?  They are known to all of you by that famous picture (the only likeness of him extant) belonging to the Marchesa Guinigi, placed in the presence-chamber of her palace.”

“Yes, yes,” burst forth Trenta, no longer able to control his enthusiasm.  “Old as I am, when I think of those days, it makes me young again.  Alas! what a change!  Now we have lost not only our independence, but our very identity.  Our sovereign is gone—­banished—­our state broken up.  We are but the slaves of a monster called the kingdom of Italy, ruled by Piedmontese barbarians!”

“Hush!—­hush!” whispered the irrepressible Baldassare.  “Pray do not interrupt the count.”  Even the stolid Adonis was moved.

“The daughters of the noblest houses of Lucca,” continued Marescotti, “strewed flowers in Castruccio’s path.  The magistrates and nobles received him on their knees.  Young as he was, with one voice they saluted him ‘Father of his Country!’”