the bearer of friendly messages to the poor private in the ranks.  From her and from little Jenna, Wilfrid heard that he was unforgotten by Countess Lena, and new hopes mingled with gratitude caused him to regard his situation seriously.  He confessed to his sister that the filthy fellows, his comrades, were all but too much for him, and asked her to kiss him, that he might feel he was not one of them.  But he would not send a message in reply to Lena.  “That is also well!” Lena said.  Her brother Karl was a favourite with General Pierson.  She proposed that Adela and herself should go to Count Karl, and urge him to use his influence with the General.  This, however, Adela was disinclined to do; she could not apparently say why.  When Lena went to him, she was astonished to hear that he knew every stage of her advance up to the point of pardoning her erratic lover; and even knew as much as that Wilfrid’s dejected countenance on the night when Vittoria’s marriage was published in the saloon of the duchess on Lake Como, had given her fresh offence.  He told her that many powerful advocates were doing their best for the down-fallen officer, who, if he were shot, or killed, would still be gazetted an officer.  “A nice comfort!” said Lena, and there was a rallying exchange of banter between them, out of which she drew the curious discovery that Karl had one of his strong admirations for the English lady.  “Surely!” she said to herself; “I thought they were all so cold.”  And cold enough the English lady seemed when Lena led to the theme.  “Do I admire your brother, Countess Lena?  Oh! yes;—­in his uniform exceedingly.”

Milan was now full.  Wilfrid had heard from Adela that Count Ammiani and his bride were in the city and were strictly watched.  Why did not conspirators like these two take advantage of the amnesty?  Why were they not in Rome?  Their Chief was in Rome; their friends were in Rome.  Why were they here?  A report, coming from Countess d’Isorella, said that they had quarrelled with their friends, and were living for love alone.  As she visited the Lenkensteins—­high Austrians—­some believed her; and as Count Ammiani and his bride had visited the Duchess of Graatli, it was thought possible.  Adela had refused to see Vittoria; she did not even know the house where Count Ammiani dwelt; so Wilfrid was reduced to find it for himself.  Every hour when off duty the miserable sentimentalist wandered in that direction, nursing the pangs of a delicious tragedy of emotions; he was like a drunkard going to his draught.  As soon as he had reached the head of the Corso, he wheeled and marched away from it with a lofty head, internally grinning at his abject folly, and marvelling at the stiff figure of an Austrian common soldier which flashed by the windows as he passed.  He who can unite prudence and madness, sagacity and stupidity, is the true buffoon; nor, vindictive as were his sensations, was Wilfrid unaware of the contrast of Vittoria’s soul to his own, that was now made up of antics.  He could not endure the tones of cathedral music; but he had at times to kneel and listen to it, and be overcome.