The clamor and rumbling of wheels came nearer and nearer, rattling over pavements, dashing against obstacles.  It came nearer, and soon he saw a carriage dragged on with terrific speed by two furious horses, who, without driver or postilion, came on unrestrained.  The carriage was knocked against trees and dashed violently against stones.  In it there was an old man leaning back with a pale face, expressing intense agony, and close to him, clung the form of a young girl-her arms wound round him, and her dishevelled hair floating in the breeze.

“O God!  Stella!” exclaimed Mario, in unspeakable horror.  “Stella!-my God, she’s lost!”

With one bound he rushed in the midst of the course taken by the infuriated horses.  His cloak fell from him, his hair flew about his pale and fixed countenance, and like a rock in the centre of a torrent, he stood in the way of the horses!

He waved his hands wildly-he shouted to the steeds.  On they came, lessening for a moment their speed-there was a bound forward.  Mario clung at the reins with the grasp of a drowning man-there was a whirl of dust, a rush of the multitude who followed after, and then with a sound like the sudden peal of thunder, burst forth the acclamation of a thousand deep-toned voices: 

“Saved, saved!”

They raised Mario up-they placed him in the carriage, and bore his insensible and much bruised form slowly to the palace of Borelloni.  All Florence rung with the tidings of the deed—­the name of Mario was spoken everywhere, and the city honored the performer of so bold an action.

“Now what will Borelloni do to reward the gallant preserver of his own life and his beloved daughter!”

“He will give him a thousand piastres,” said one.

“He will enrich him for life,” said another.

“He will do no such thing,” said a third.  “Mario is no mercenary man.  He despises rewards of that kind.  I will tell you.  He loves the count’s daughter.”

“Ah,” said all.

“And he deserves her.  But for him she would not have lived to have his love, nor would Borelloni have been living to refuse.”

“Does he refuse?” said they.

“Mario said nothing to the count.  It is an old story.  He has loved her long.  But the count, who refused him once before, will not now retract his word, even to the preserver of his life.”

Mario was cared for and soon recovered.  He spake not a word about his love to Borelloni.  He would not ask him now, for then he would seem to demand payment for his action, and such a thing he scorned-even though it should bestow upon him the hand of his beloved.

“I will wait,” said he.  “I will raise myself to an equality with her, and then Borelloni shall not refuse.”