But he had his own ideas on the subject of Gherardi’s visit to his fair betrothed,—­ideas which he kept to himself, for if his surmises were correct, now was the time to put Sylvie’s character to the test.  He did not doubt her stability in the very least, but he could never quite get away from her mignonne child-like appearance of woman, to the contemplation of the spirit behind the pretty exterior.  Her beauty was so riante, so dazzling, so dainty, that it seemed to fire the very air as a sunbeam fires it,—­and there was no room for any more serious consideration than that of purely feminine charm.  Walking dreamily, almost unseeingly through the streets, he thought again and yet again of the sweet face, the rippling hair, the laughing yet tender eyes, the sunny smile.  Behind that beautiful picture or earth-phantom of womanhood, is there that sword of flame, the soul?—­the soul that will sweep through shams, and come out as bright and glittering at the end of the fight as at the beginning?—­ he mused;—­or is it not almost too much to expect of a mere woman that she can contend against the anger of a Church?

He was still thinking on this subject, when someone walking quickly came face to face with him, and said—­

“Aubrey!” He started and stared,—­then uttered a cry of pleasure.

“Gys Grandit!”

The two men clasped each other’s hands in a warm, strong grasp—­and for a moment neither could speak.

“My dear fellow!” said Aubrey at last—­“This is indeed an unexpected meeting!  How glad I am to see you!  When did you arrive in Rome?”

“This morning only,” said Cyrillon, recovering his speech and his equanimity together—­“And as soon as I arrived, I found that my hopes had not betrayed me—­she is not dead!”

“She?” Aubrey started—­“My dear Grandit!  Or rather I must call you Vergniaud now—­who is the triumphant ‘she’ that has brought you thus post haste to Rome?”

Cyrillon flushed—­then grew pale.

“I should not have spoken!” he said—­“And yet, why not!  You were my first friend!—­you found me working in the fields, a peasant lad, untrained and sullen, burning up my soul with passionate thoughts which, but for you, might never have blossomed into action,—­you rescued me—­you made me all I am!  So why should I not confess to you at once that there is a woman I love!—­yes, love with all my soul, though I have seen her but once!—­and she is too far off, too fair and great for me:  she does not know I love her—­but I heard she had been murdered—­that she was dead—­”

“Angela Sovrani!” cried Aubrey.

Cyrillon bent his head as a devotee might at the shrine of a saint.

“Yes—­Angela Sovrani!”

Aubrey looked at his handsome face glowing with enthusiasm, and saw the passion, the tenderness, the devotion of a life flashing in his fine eyes.

“Love at first sight!” he said with a smile—­“I believe it is the only true fire!  A glance ought to be enough to express the recognition of one soul to its mate.  Well!  Angela Sovrani is a woman among ten thousand—­the love of her alone is sufficient to make a man better and nobler in every way—­and if you can win her—­”