On the morrow there was a deliciously humorous trial.  The young advocate was in attendance, and the whole village was called to give evidence.  But, curiously enough, I was not summoned.  I had been, it seemed, in the hotel changing my clothes.  However, I was not missed, for everybody else had something to say.  There were excellent plans of the ground, showing where the miscreant assaulted the magistrate.  There, plain to be seen, was the mark in the snow where Henry, starting half a minute after me, and observing a vast prostrate bulk on the path, had turned his toboggan into the snow-bank, duly described his parabola, discuticled his nose—­in fact, fulfilled the programme to the letter.  Clearly, then, he could not have been the aggressor.  The villain has remained, up to the publication of this veracious chronicle, unknown.  No matter:  I am not going back to Bergsdorf.

But something had to be done to vindicate the offended majesty of the law.  So they fined Henry seventeen francs for obstructing the police in the discharge of their duty.

“Never mind,” said Henry, “that’s just eight francs fifty each.  I got in two, both right-handers.”

And I doubt not but the officers concerned considered that he had got his money’s worth.

CHAPTER XIII

CASTEL DEL MONTE

It was March before we found ourselves in the Capital of the South.  The Countess was still there, but the Count, her brother, had not appeared, and the explanation to which he referred remained unspoken.  Here Lucia was our kind friend and excellent entertainer; but of the tenderness of the Hotel Promontonio it was hard for me to find a trace.  The great lady indeed outshone her peers, and took my moorland eyes as well as the regards of others.  But I had rather walked by the lake with the scarlet cloak, or stood with her and been shot at for a white owl in the niche of the terrace.

In the last days of the month there came from Henry’s uncle and guardian, Wilfred Fenwick, an urgent summons.  He was ill, he might be dying, and Henry was to return at once; while I, in anticipation of his return, was to continue in Italy.  There was indeed nothing to call me home.

Therefore—­and for other reasons—­I abode in Italy; and after Henry’s departure I made evident progress in the graces of the Countess.  Once or twice she allowed me to remain behind for half an hour.  On these occasions she would come and throw herself down in a chair by the fire, and permit me to take her hand.  But she was weary and silent, full of gloomy thoughts, which in vain I tried to draw from her.  Still, I think it comforted her to have me thus sit by her.

One morning, while I was idly leaning upon the bridge, and looking towards the hills with their white marble palaces set amid the beauty of the Italian spring, one touched me on the shoulder.  I turned, and lo—­Lucia!  Not any more the Countess, but Lucia, radiant with brightness, colour in her cheek for the first time since I had seen her in the Court of the South, animation sparkling in her eye.