“Can you accommodate me within?”

“Si, signor.”

“And my horse?”

“Si, signor.”

“I may as well stop here,” said Carlton, for it was he, “as a few miles nearer the city, for I cannot enter until morning.”

Resolving to tarry here for the night, he threw the bridle of his weary steed to the hostler, and entered the house.  He had ridden out from the city early that morning for exercise and pleasure, and had ascended many miles the wild and majestic Apennines to obtain a view of the glorious scenery presented from their lofty heights, and get a sight of the far-off Adriatic; he was belated on his way, and resolved to go no further in the deep darkness of the night.  A storm, too, was evidently about to break in all its fury, and might overtake him before another shelter could be obtained.  It was this latter inducement, in connection with the weary state of his horse, that led him to decide upon stopping at so uninviting a house as the one in question.

It was a noble animal which he seemed to have such consideration for, and was a gift of the duke’s from his own stable-an animal that had already learned to love his new master, and stood with arching neck, and brilliant eye, as though no labor or fatigue could banish his conscious pride.  The young artist regarded him with undisguised admiration, petted him by a few gentle strokes upon the head and a kind word, and said, “Yes, Prince, you and I will tarry here until morning, and go back to town with renewed strength and vigor gained from this mountain air.”

Having seen that his horse was properly bestowed, Carlton returned to the house, and passed immediately into the little parlor of the inn where the ceremony had just been performed, little anticipating the startling scene that there awaited him.  The astonishment of Carlton at beholding Florinda there, surrounded by the servants endeavoring to resuscitate her, with Petro and his uncle, Signor Latrezzi, can better be imagined than described.  Twice did he dash his hand across his eyes, as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming; then thrusting them recklessly aside, he was about to raise her in his arms, when Petro, who was taken completely by surprise, recognized him and, drawing his stiletto, struck fiercely at his heart.

Carlton received the blow partly upon the arm, where it inflicted a flesh wound only.  Turning upon the Italian, with one blow of his muscular arm, he threw him prostrate upon the floor; and half way across the apartment; then drawing from the ample pocket of his riding-coat a pistol, he presented it at the infuriated Petro, bidding him to stand back, or his life should pay the forfeit.

“By this light, one step in advance and you die!”

Carlton was in earnest, and Petro could read the determination of his spirit flashing from his eye, and he quailed before it.  He felt that he was in the wrong; that the manly interference of Carlton had right to back it; and this consciousness, while it unnerved his own arm, nerved that of the artist’s.  Carlton paused for a moment, as if to consider what to do; he was amazed and confounded, and his arm sunk by his side.