“He is coming,” said one in an earnest whisper.  “It is he-Borelloni.”

Mario’s heart leaped within his bosom at the word.  He almost determined to rush upon the villains.  But it would be premature, and he would be attacked.  He could save the life of Borelloni more easily by waiting.

The horseman drew nearer and nearer.  He was walking his horse slowly down the road.  He soon came up a few yards from the spot where these men and Mario sat concealed.  There he paused for a moment.

“Will he stop, or go back?” whispered one.

“No-hush!” said the other.

Borelloni came on, he came abreast of them-then one fired a pistol, and both sprang out.  One seized the horse, while the other dragged the baron to the ground, crying: 

“Say your prayers, old man.  You must die.”

“Villains!” roared a loud voice behind them, and Mario, springing out, gave one bound and felled the wretch to the earth.  The other, frightened and surprised, stood in speechless astonishment.  Mario rushed up to him and raised his arm to strike.  The man fired.  His pistol was knocked aside by Mario, and the next moment he lay senseless on the ground.

Mario came to Borelloni and raised him from the ground.

“Are you hurt?” he inquired.

“Good God!  Is it possible!”

“I am Mario.  I thank Heaven I am here to prevent these ruffians from executing their design.  Can I assist you to mount?”

He assisted the count to get on his horse again.  By this time a troop of soldiers, alarmed by the pistol reports, had come to the place.

“Take those men with you,” said Mario.  “They have attempted the life of Count Borelloni.  And accompany the count to the city.  But what-you are wounded.”

“No, the bullet only grazed my head.  Mario you have saved my life.  I am speechless.  I feel more than I can utter now.”

“Do not thank me.  Thank Heaven who sent me here.  Good-night, my lord.”  And turning, he was soon out of sight.

Stella sat in her chamber that night thinking upon her interview with Mario.  She lost herself in conjectures about the future-so dark, so obscure, and yet it might be-so bright and happy.  The noise below told her of her father’s arrival home, and she ran down to welcome him.

“My father!  How late you are!  But what!” She started back in horror at the sight of his bloody forehead.  “Are you hurt? are you wounded, father?”

“I was set upon by two ruffians, and would probably have been killed, if—­”

“Attacked, wounded!  O Heaven!  You shall not go out alone, father, you must not.  You are feeble, and cannot now defend yourself.”

She made him sit down, and tenderly washed his wound, and stayed the blood till the doctor came.  After the wound was dressed the doctor departed and Stella spoke.

“You said you were saved, but did not tell me how, nor did you tell me his name.  Do you know him?”