“True; since yesterday it has been south-east.”

“So much the better; the ships which have been kept out at sea can ascend the Scheldt with to-day’s or to-morrow’s tide.”

“And you hope,” said Mr. Van de Werve, shaking his head, “that among these vessels will be found the Il Salvatore, which is to bring the old Signor Deodati from Lucca?”

“I have so long implored of heaven this favorable wind,” replied the young girl.  “I thank the God of mercy that my prayer has been heard!”

Mr. Van de Werve was silent; his daughter’s words had evidently made a disagreeable impression upon him.

She passed her arm caressingly around his neck, and said: 

“Dear father, you are sorrowful; and yet you promised me to await tranquilly the arrival of Signor Deodati.”

“It is true, my child,” he replied; “but, as the time approaches when I must come to a decision, my soul is filled with anxiety.  We are the descendants of an illustrious family, and our style of living should be so magnificent as to reflect credit on our rank.  The Signor Geronimo, whom you seem to prefer to all others, lives very economically; he dresses simply, and abstains from all that kind of expenditure which, being an evidence of wealth and chivalric generosity, elevates a man in the eyes of the world.  That makes me fear that his uncle is either in moderate circumstances or very avaricious.”

“But, father, permit me to say that the Signor Deodati of Lucca is very rich and of high birth,” replied the young girl, sadly.  “Did not the banker Marco Riccardi give you satisfactory information on that point?”

“And should he be miserly, Mary, will he accept the conditions I propose?  I shall demand of him the renunciation of a considerable portion of his possessions in favor of his nephew Geronimo.  Would it not be an insult to you, which your brothers would avenge, were your hand to be refused from pecuniary motives?  I regret that you have so irrevocably fixed your affections on the Signor Geronimo, when you might have chosen among a hundred others richer and of higher estate.  The head of the powerful house of Buonvisi had more claim upon my sympathy and yours.”

“Simon Turchi!” said the young girl, sorrowfully bowing her head.

“What has this poor Signor Turchi left undone during the past three years to prove his chivalric love?” replied her father.  “Festivals, banquets, concerts, boating on the Scheldt, nothing has been spared; he has expended a fortune to please you.  At one time you did not dislike him; but ever since the fatal night when he was attacked by unknown assassins and wounded in the face, you look upon him with different eyes.  Instead of being grateful to the good Turchi, you comport yourself in such a manner towards him, that I am induced to believe that you hate him.”

“Hate the Signor Turchi!” exclaimed Mary, as if frightened by the accusation.  “Dear father, do not indulge such a thought.”