The count leaped out upon the greensward and rushed to the parapet.

“How beautiful!” he exclaimed, throwing back his head and drawing in the warm air.  “See how the sun of New Italy lights up the old city!  Cathedral, palace, church, gallery, roof, tower, all ablaze at our feet!  Speak, tell me, is it not wonderful?” and he turned to Enrica, who, anxiously turning from side to side, was trying to discover where she could best overlook the street of San Simone and Nobili’s palace.

Addressed by Marescotti, she started and stopped short.

“Never, never,” he continued, becoming greatly excited, “shall I forget this meeting!—­here with you—­the golden-haired daughter of this ancient house!”

“I!” exclaimed Enrica.  “O count, what a mistake!  I have no house, no home.  I live on the charity of my aunt.”

“That makes no difference in your descent, fair Guinigi.  Charity! charity!  Who would not shower down oceans of charity to possess such a treasure?” He leaned his back against the parapet, and bent his eyes with fervent admiration on her.  “It is only in verse that I can celebrate her,” he muttered, “prose is too cold for her warm coloring.  The Madonna—­the uninstructed Madonna—­before the archangel’s visit—­”

“But, count,” said Enrica timidly (his vehemence and strange glances made her feel very shy), “will you tell me the names of the beautiful mountains around?  I have seen so little—­I am so ignorant.”

“I will, I will,” replied Marescotti, speaking rapidly, his glowing eyes raising themselves from her face to look out over the distance; “but, in mercy, grant me a few moments to collect myself.  Remember I am a poet; imagination is my world; the unreal my home; the Muses my sisters.  I live there above, in the golden clouds”—­and he turned and pointed to a crest of glittering vapor sailing across the intense blue of the sky.  Then, with his hand pressed on his brow, he began to pace rapidly up and down the narrow platform.

The cavaliere and Baldassare were watching him from the farther end of the tower.

“He! he!” said Trenta, and he gave a little laugh and nudged Baldassare.  “Do you see the count?  He is fairly off.  Marescotti is too poetical for this world.  Unpractical, poor fellow—­very unpractical.  The fit is on him now.  Look at him, Baldassare; see how he stares about, and clinches his fist.  I hope he will not leap over the parapet in his ecstasy.”

“Ha! ha!” responded Baldassare, who with eyes wide open, and hands thrust into his pockets, leaned back beside Trenta against the wall.  “Ha, ha!—­I must laugh,” Baldassare whispered into his ear—­“I cannot help it—­look how the count’s lips are moving.  He is in the most extraordinary excitement.”