Suddenly the brisk old cavaliere stops.  The expression of Marescotti’s large, earnest eyes, fixed on him wonderingly, recalls him to himself.

“Excuse me, my dear friend; when you are my age, you will better understand an old man’s feelings.  We are losing time.  Now get your hat, and come with me at once to Casa Guinigi; the marchesa expects you.  We will settle the day of the betrothal.—­My sweet Enrica, how I long to see you!”

While he is speaking Trenta rises and strikes his cane on the ground with a triumphant air; then he holds out both his hands toward the count.

“Shake hands with me, my dear Marescotti.  I congratulate you—­with my whole soul I congratulate you!  She will be your salvation, the dear, blue-eyed little angel?”

In the tumult of his excitement Trenta had taken every thing for granted.  His thoughts had flown off to Enrica.  His benevolent heart throbbed with joy at the thought of her emancipation from the thralldom of her home.  A vision of the dark-haired, pale-faced Marescotti, and the little blond head, with its shower of golden curls, kneeling together before the altar in the sunshine, danced before his eyes.  Marescotti would become a, Christian—­a firm pillar of the Church; he would rear up children who would worship God and the Holy Father; he would restore the glory of the Guinigi!

From this roseate dream the poor cavaliere was abruptly roused.  His outstretched hand had not been taken by Marescotti.  It dropped to his side.  Trenta looked up sharply.  His countenance suddenly fell; a purple flush covered it from chin to forehead, penetrating even the very roots of his snowy hair.  His cane dropped with a loud thud, and rolled away along the uncarpeted floor.  He thrust both his hands into his pockets, and stood motionless, with his eyes wide open, like a man stunned.

“Dio buono!—­Dio buono!” he muttered, “the man is mad!—­the man is mad!” Then, after a few minutes of absolute silence, he asked, in a husky voice, “Marescotti, what does this mean?”

The count had turned away toward the window.  At the sound of the cavaliere’s husky voice, he moved and faced him.  In the space of a few moments he had greatly changed.  Suddenly he had grown worn and weary-looking.  His eyes were sunk into his head; dark circles had formed round them.  His bloodless cheeks, transparent with the pallor of perfect health, were blanched; the corners of his mouth worked convulsively.

“Does the lady—­does Enrica Guinigi know of this proposal?” he asked, in a voice so sad that the cavaliere’s indignation against him cooled considerably.

“Good God!” exclaimed Trenta, “such a question is an insult to me and to my errand.  Can you imagine that I, all my life chamberlain to his highness the Duke of Lucca, am capable of compromising a lady?”