The count then related all-told him of Mario’s love for Stella, of his own pride, of Mario’s actions.  When it was ended, the duke, who had displayed the greatest emotion, arose and went to Mario.

“Never,” he cried, “most noble youth-never have I heard of more generosity and greatness of soul.  Happy is he who can call you his friend.  But you shall not be neglected by me, for while I live, you will always have a friend.  I honor your actions.  I love your noble character.”

Mario was overwhelmed by mingled emotions of happiness and confusion.  Joy had rushed in upon him, like a torrent, and unable to speak, he could only express by his glance, the feelings of his soul.

“God bless you, my lord duke!” at length he cried.  “God bless you, Count Borelloni!  I am unworthy of such praise, but I can never forget your kindness to an obscure artist.”

“An obscure artist?  No, not so,” answered the duke.  “No longer obscure, you are the greatest in the land, and none shall call you otherwise.  I name you count-and in a week your title shall be formally bestowed, so henceforth, Count Fostello, you may not be obscure.”

A week afterward the palace of Borelloni was all festivity.  Lights gleamed in dazzling rows within the long halls where all the flower of Tuscan nobility, and all the lords and barons and great men of other lands were assembled.  For this was the day when the Count Fostello led to the altar the lovely Stella Borelloni.  The Grand Duke condescended to be the head groomsman.  The magnificent form and features of the noble artist were the admiration of all, and only equalled by the beauty of his bride.

The story of his love and constancy, of his wonderful actions and splendid achievements in the realm of art, was told to all, and the city rung with his praise.  All courted his friendship.  All of noble nature loved him for himself, and the baser spirits were compelled to do him homage, for in him they saw the man whom the duke “delighted to honor.”

[From “The flag of our union.”]

A tale of A crusader.

By Charles E. Waite.

CHAPTER I.

  He whirls his sword, with unresisted rage,
  When closely prest, the Christian bands engage
  The high, the low, his equal prowess feel,
  The bravest warriors sink beneath his steel.

Jerusalem delivered.

There sat a palmer within the old baronial banqueting hall of Percy Du Bois.  The wassail had not yet begun, and there was a pause in the feast.  All eyes were bent upon the travel soiled pilgrim,—­for he was telling a stirring tale of the martial deeds done in Palestine.  The valiant Percy bent forward his anxious visage,—­seamed by many a scar, gained in feudal broils and festive brawls,—­and ever and anon burst forth, with uncontrollable excitement, into shouts of approval, as some daring achievement was recounted.