It was summer, and the sun glanced brightly, gloriously, over the silver waters of Thrasymene’s lake, for such we love to call the lake which the Italians name Perugia.  The wind blew softly over the plain, and the rich groves all covered with luxuriant foliage shaded the quiet fields beneath, which more than two thousand years before had resounded with the roar of battle.  The hills encircled the plain on three sides, protecting it in winter from the cold blast and causing it to bloom with perennial verdure.  The lake rippled on the shore of the other side, and stretched away-a sheet of molten silver, till it watered the bases of distant hills.

In this charming spot which every traveller loves to view, had the Count Borelloni reared a summer palace.  It lay on the southern shore of the lake, half way up the mountains, and in from its roof a scene like one in fairy land burst upon the view, The cool winds which blew here were an alleviation to the heat of summer and Florence, with its noise and dust, was gladly exchanged for the quiet scenes of this enchanting spot.

There was a boat upon the lake, and the enjoyment of sailing formed a chief attraction to visitors, for Borelloni’s villa was always open to his friends.  Yet at times there was danger attending this pleasure, for tempests would arise and the waters would be converted into furious waves.

“How beautiful is this lovely place?” said the count to his daughter, as they walked upon the terrace!  “What a scene is this for a painter.  See where the sun is setting over yonder-those clouds tinged with myriad tints surrounding him in glory!  See above us, how intensely blue the sky, how clear the atmosphere!  Look at the opposite shore-how green, how glowing in fruits and flowers-all again appearing down in the depths of this unruffled lake!  O Italy, my country, how beautiful thou art!”

“And father, look at these heights around us, and on the western shore-these bold rocks with their summits all covered with spreading trees.  How grandly they set off the picture!”

“If I were a painter, I know no scene that I would choose to portray, rather than this.”

“Since you respect and love art so highly, father, why did you not learn this?”

“I was too busy in my youth, Stella.”

“Who of all you know is best in this art?”

“I know a great many excellent ones-many who excel in landscape painting-many who are good in historic pictures, but of all whom I know, the one is undoubtedly the greatest, the one who excels all others in mingled grandeur and loveliness of conception, and who approaches nearest to the grand old masters is he-the artist who saved us from death—­Mario.”

“Mario!”

“Yes, and if he had not been guilty of such great presumption, my palace and my esteem would have been thrown open to him always-first, because he is chief of artists, and especially because he saved my darling’s life.”