“Yes; but then with powder and ball, the veriest dunce in Christendom may blow out a gentleman’s brain, while it takes an artiste to run one through the body handsomely.  Give me the sword, Carlton-I’ve a great horror, in such cases, of ’villanous saltpetre.’”

“I have no taste in such matters; but knowing the boasted prowess of Signor Petro with the sword, I preferred that weapon, though I think you have seen me do some pretty things with the pistol, Brownlow?  It was a silly fancy I had when a boy to learn its use.”

“An’ I had carte and tierces at my fingers’ ends as thou hast, I would give a thousand pounds,” said his companion.

“I’ll tell thee how to gain it.”

“By what means?”

“Shut thyself up as I have done for months together, with no companion save the brush, and no money to purchase books for perusal, and thou couldst learn it as readily as I have done; always supposing you to have as expert a teacher as that little Frenchman, Carnot, who in all else was anything but a companion-ay, a regular bore.  But in mastering my aversion for him, why, you see, Brownlow, I became master of the weapon.”

“Very true, but I have no Carnot to teach me; and to-day I see what I lose by the want of one.”

“I’ll teach it to thee, myself, Brownlow, when both of us have leisure,” said Carlton.

“Do so, and I will repay thee at any cost.”

And this, too, was one of those very artists, who but a few months previous had scoffed and jeered at him in the open streets of Florence.

How beautiful was the prospect that spread itself out to their view as the mist cleared away from their path down the mountain.  Below them lay, in all its beauty, the city of Florence, the pride of Tuscany, and the Val d’Arno, crowded with white palaces, whose walls lay sparkling in the morning sun like the trembling waves of the sea.

Carlton returned to his lodgings, which were now the best and most capacious apartments of an ancient palace, the principal windows of which opened fronting the tall eminence of Fiesole, crowned by the gay old monastery where Milton passed many weeks while gathering materials for “Paradise Lost.”

Here Carlton had his studio, the daily resort of the beauty and fashion of Florence, while his home was also the receptacle of all that taste could suggest, or the most fastidious could desire, contrasting strongly with his late want and suffering.  Even the Grand Duke honored his studio with an occasional visit, which rendered the other artists of the city more jealous and envious than ever.

About a month had passed since the duel upon the mountain-side, and during that time Carlton was only able to communicate with Florinda through means of epistolary correspondence.  For some time he had employed a servant of the house of Carrati as his messenger; but the fellow being bribed by the agents of Petro, intercepted the letters, and now Carlton was forced to become his own messenger or bearer of the letters he himself wrote.  He was now urgent in his communications to the gentle Florinda that she should elope from her home and become united to him; and their arrangements were nearly completed, as the following letter, written at this time, will show: