Gulielmo’s burning cheek might have sown the pain which raged within his breast:  but, nevertheless, he accompanied Sartello with a firm and confident stop till they reached the inn where the guests had already begun to assemble.  In the porch, by the side of Jean Maret, sat Rosa, with a few flowers in her hair, her countenance as sweet to view as the first blush of a May morn.  But when she met the fiery glance which Gulielmo cast upon her, she seemed abashed, and half turned toward her companion, with a silent appeal of the eyes.  The priest now arrived, and all was made ready, Gulielmo looking on with a heated brain, and a feverish sickness gnawing at his heart.  He was only able to see a single lovely face, in which a sudden sadness seemed to dim its former smiling grace.

“Why wait we?” bluffly exclaimed Jean Maret.  “The priest awaits, the bride is ready.  Gulielmo Massani, come forward; Rosa has chosen you as bridesman.”

“Scoundrel!” replied Gulielmo, “dare no jests with me, else your life may fail you before your wedding is over.”

“My wedding may be near at hand,” returned Jean; “but I fear much that Rosa will hardly be my bride.  Go, fair maid, and lead this stubborn youth hither.  If all else fail, I think that thou wilt be able to hold him captive.”

Rosa sprang from the porch to meet Gulielmo.  Flinging her lily arms about his neck, her head reclining on his breast: 

“Thou art mine,” she said; “whether poor or rich, it is the same to me.  Pardon this deceit; it was not my will to give thee needless pain.”

“How is this?” Gulielmo was with difficulty able to say.  “Your bridal—­”

“Come, your place!” interrupted Jean.  “There, take her hand.  How dull you are!  It seems to me that after all I should make the readiest groom of the two.”

“Not so!” exclaimed Gulielmo.  “But I must not allow you to be deceived, however little my tale may profit me.”

“Hold then a moment,” Sartello cried.  “Your hand, friend Jean; I think you bear no ill-will.  Or if you do, the settlement we’ll postpone, till this present affair shall be concluded.  Here, then, in this bag which I deliver you, you will find a thousand crowns, a forced loan to aid Gulielmo’s studious years; and with the sum, five hundred crowns by way of interest.  I enacted the Russian on a certain occasion,—­a counterfeit lord,—­and yet not altogether so, as you will own when you have heard my story.  Four years ago, I held the title of Prince of Cornaro, where I, in the midst of a beautiful country, upheld the privileges of a lord.  But one luckless day I joined a secret band, which sought to change the rule by which Italy was swayed.  We failed, and I was forced to fly my native towers, to roam the mountain depths as the chief of lawless men.  My wide estates were confiscated to the service of the crown.  But this noble youth has now obtained for me a full pardon from the king for all past misdeeds.  The sovereign also freely restores me to my former rank and possessions.”