“My daughter!” cried the old man.  “O my daughter, she has perished!  Let me go to her!”

“Look!” exclaimed a voice, pointing to the water.  “I see a dark form amid the foam.  I see it-it is a man, and he swims, bearing something with him.”

All eyes turned there.  The baron revived, and again looked hopefully at the water, where the brave swimmer so gallantly breasted the waves.

But could it be his daughter?

They came nearer-nearer, and now the face was seen, and the hair, as it fell and rose above the water.  It was-it must be-yes, that long, dark hair and those lovely features belonged only to Stella!

The old man bowed down his head and wept.

Nearer, nearer, and now all fear was gone, for the bold swimmer still showed an unfailing strength and energy.  But his face was unknown.  None had seen it before.  Yet Borelloni knew it-well he knew it.  The same face had appeared amid the death struggle, the dust and wild prancing of maddened horses on the Casino.

And now Mario touched the land.  And now he bore his senseless burden through the crowd to her father’s arms.

“O take her Mario, to the house-carry her there, or else she dies.”

But Mario laid her down at her father’s feet, upon the grass, and voicelessly, nervelessly fell down beside her.

They carried them both to the villa.  They cared for them, and soon Mario opened his eyes and asked eagerly for Stella.

“She is saved, and well.  She is with her father.”

“Saved? then I am happy.”

He arose, and all dripping as he was, left the house, in spite of the eagerness of the attendants.

“No,” he said, “my home is near by, and why should I remain here?  I will go.  Leave me.”

And he arose and left the house.

“Where is the saviour of my child?” said Borelloni, on the following morning.

“Gone?” said his attendants.

“Gone?  Fools!  Why did you send him away thus?”

“He would not stay, your excellency.  He said his home was near by.”

“Then go, I tell you, and search the country far and wide, and bring him to me.”

After their departure, the baron remained in deep thought for a long time.

“Strange,” muttered he, “passing strange, how this painter seems to be my genius.  A good genius too-near in moments of peril.  How he looked as his face rose above the waves, while he bore my daughter to the shore.  Yet how can I give her to him?  I cannot.”

The attendants returned at evening.  Their search was unsuccessful.  But one said that a tall, noble-looking man had departed in the diligence for Florence at early dawn.

“’Tis well,” exclaimed Borelloni.  “I fear to meet him.  Better is it that he should go.”

Summer with its heat had passed away, and mild September had now come, when Florence again becomes delightful.  The villa at Thrasymene was now forsaken, and the palace of Borelloni at Florence again was all joyous and thronged with people as of yore.  Again the carriage of the count rolled along the Lung’ Arno, and he received the salutations of his friends.