“No doubt you are right, eccellenza.  Still one is glad to see the roses bloom, and the stars shine, and the foam-bells sparkle on the waves—­so one is glad to see Lilla Monti.”

I turned round in my chair to observe him more closely—­the flush deepened on his cheek as I regarded him.  I laughed with a bitter sadness.

“In love, amico, art thou?  So soon!—­three days—­and thou hast fallen a prey to the smile of Lilla!  I am sorry for thee!”

He interrupted me eagerly.

“The eccellenza is in error!  I would not dare—­she is too innocent—­ she knows nothing!  She is like a little bird in the nest, so soft and tender—­a word of love would frighten her; I should be a coward to utter it.”

Well, well!  I thought, what was the use of sneering at the poor fellow!  Why, because my own love had turned to ashes in my grasp, should I mock at those who fancied they had found the golden fruit of the Hesperides?  Vincenzo, once a soldier, now half courier, half valet, was something of a poet at heart; he had the grave meditative turn of mind common to Tuscans, together with that amorous fire that ever burns under their lightly worn mask of seeming reserve.

I roused myself to appear interested.

“I see, Vincenzo,” I said, with a kindly air of banter, “that the sight of Lilla Monti more than compensates you for that portion of the Neapolitan carnival which you lose by being here.  But why you should wish me to behold this paragon of maidens I know not, unless you would have me regret my own lost youth.”

A curious and perplexed expression flitted over his face, At last he said firmly, as though his mind were made up: 

“The eccellenza must pardon me for seeing what perhaps I ought not to have seen, but—­”

“But what?” I asked.

“Eccellenza, you have not lost your youth.”

I turned my head toward him again—­he was looking at me in some alarm—­he feared some outburst of anger.

“Well!” I said, calmly.  “That is your idea, is it? and why?”

“Eccellenza, I saw you without your spectacles that day when you fought with the unfortunate Signor Ferrari.  I watched you when you fired.  Your eyes are beautiful and terrible—­the eyes of a young man, though your hair is white.”

Quietly I took off my glasses and laid them on the table beside me.

“As you have seen me once without them, you can see me again,” I observed, gently.  “I wear them for a special purpose.  Here in Avellino the purpose does not hold.  Thus far I confide in you.  But beware how you betray my confidence.”

“Eccellenza!” cried Vincenzo, in truly pained accents, and with a grieved look.

I rose and laid my hand on his arm.