“Eccellenza!” he exclaimed, eagerly, “you must forgive me—­yes, forgive your poor servant who seems too bold, and who yet is true to you—­yes, indeed, so true!—­and who would go with you to death if there were need!  I am not blind, I can see your sufferings, for you do suffer, ’lustrissimo, though you hide it well.  Often have I watched you when you have not known it.  I feel that you have what we call a wound in the heart, bleeding, bleeding always.  Such a thing means death often, as much as a straight shot in battle.  Let me watch over you, eccellenza; let me stay with you!  I have learned to love you!  Ah, mio signor,” and he drew nearer and caught my hand timidly, “you do not know—­how should you?—­the look that is in your face sometimes, the look of one who is stunned by a hard blow.  I have said to myself ‘That look will kill me if I see it often.’  And your love for this great lady, whom you will wed to-morrow, has not lightened your soul as love should lighten it.  No! you are even sadder than before, and the look I speak of comes ever again and again.  Yes, I have watched you, and lately I have seen you writing, writing far into the night, when you should have slept.  Ah, signor! you are angry, and I know I should not have spoken; but tell me, how can I look at Lilla and be happy when I feel that you are alone and sad?”

I stopped the flood of his eloquence by a mute gesture and withdrew my hand from his clasp.

“I am not angry,” I said, with quiet steadiness, and yet with something of coldness, though my whole nature, always highly sensitive, was deeply stirred by the rapid, unstudied expressions of affection that melted so warmly from his lips in the liquid music of the mellow Tuscan tongue.  “No, I am not angry, but I am sorry to have been the object of so much solicitude on your part.  Your pity is misplaced, Vincenzo, it is indeed!  Pity an emperor clad in purples and seated on a throne of pure gold, but do not pity me!  I tell you that, to-morrow, yes, to-morrow, I shall obtain all that I have ever sought—­my greatest desire will be fulfilled.  Believe it.  No man has ever been so thoroughly satiated with—­satisfaction—­as I shall be!”

Then seeing him look still sad and incredulous, I clapped my hand on his shoulder and smiled.

“Come, come, amico, wear a merrier face for my bridal day, or you will not deserve to wed Lilla.  I thank you from my heart,” and I spoke more gravely, “for your well meant care and kindness, but I assure you there is nothing wrong with me.  I am well—­perfectly well—­and happy.  It is understood that you go to Avellino to-morrow evening?”

Vincenzo sighed, but was passive.

“It must be as the eccellenza pleases,” he murmured, resignedly.

“That is well,” I answered, good-humoredly; “and as you know my pleasure, take care that nothing interferes with your departure.  And—­one word more—­you must cease to watch me.  Plainly speaking, I do not choose to be under your surveillance.  Nay—­I am not offended, far from it, fidelity and devotion are excellent virtues, but in the present case I prefer obedience—­strict, implicit obedience.  Whatever I may do, whether I sleep or wake, walk or sit still—­ attend to your duties and pay no heed to my actions.  So will you best serve me—­you understand?”