He paused; so profound a sigh escaped him that it almost formed itself into a groan.

“I don’t understand all this,” said Trenta, reddening with indignation.  He had been by degrees collecting his scattered senses.  “I don’t understand it at all.  You have, count, placed me in a most awkward position; I feel it very much.  You speak of a mistake—­a misapprehension.  I beg to say there has been none on my part; I am not in the habit of making mistakes.”—­It will be seen that the cavaliere’s temper was rising with the sense of the intolerable injury Count Marescotti was inflicting on himself and all concerned.—­“I have undertaken a very serious responsibility; I have failed, you tell me.  What am I to say to the marchesa?”

His shrill voice rose into an angry cry.  Altogether, it was more than he could bear.  For a moment, the injury to Enrica was forgotten in his own personal sense of wrong.  It was too galling to fail in an official embassy Trenta, who always acted upon mature reflection, abhorred failure.

“Tell her,” answered the count, raising his voice, his eyes kindling as he spoke—­“tell her I am here in Lucca on a sacred mission.  I confide it to her honor.  A man sworn to a mission cannot marry.  As in the kingdom of heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage, so I, the anointed priest of the people, dare not marry; it would be sacrilege.”  His powerful voice rang through the room; he raised his hands aloft, as if invoking some unseen power to whom he belonged.  “When you, cavaliere, entered this room, I was about to confide my position to you.  I am at Lucca—­Lucca, once the foster-mother of progress, and, I pray Heaven, to become so again!—­I am at Lucca to found a mission of freedom.”  A sudden gesture told him how much Trenta was taken aback at this announcement.  “We differ in our opinions as widely as the poles,” continued the count, warming to his subject, “but you are my old friend—­I felt you would not betray me.  Now, after what has passed, as a man of honor, I am bound to confide in you.  O Italy! my country!” exclaimed the count, clasping his hands, and throwing back his head in a frenzy of enthusiasm, “what sacrifice is too great for thee?  Youth, hope, love—­nay, life itself—­all—­all I devote to thee!”

As he was speaking, a ray of sunlight penetrated through the closed windows.  It struck like a fiery arrow across the darkened room, and fell full upon the count’s upturned face, lighting up every line of his noble countenance.  There was a solemn passion in his eyes, a rapt fervor in his gaze, that silenced even the justly-irritated Trenta.

Nevertheless the cavaliere was not a man to be put off by mere words, however imposing they might be.  He returned, therefore, to the charge perseveringly.

“You speak of a mission, Count Marescotti; what is the nature of this mission?  Nothing political, I hope?”

He stopped abruptly.  The count’s eyelids dropped over his eyes as he met Trenta’s inquiring glance.  Then he bowed his head in acquiescence.