Donna Faustina was just eighteen years old, and had only quitted the convent of the Sacro Cuore a month earlier.  It might have been said that she was too young to be beautiful, for she evidently belonged to that class of women who do not attain their full development until a later period.  Her figure was almost too slender, her face almost too delicate and ethereal.  There was about her a girlish look, an atmosphere of half-saintly maidenhood, which was not so much the expression of her real nature as the effect produced by her being at once very thin and very fresh.  There was indeed nothing particularly angelic about her warm brown eyes, shaded by unusually long black lashes; and little wayward locks of chestnut hair, curling from beneath the small round hat of the period, just before the small pink ears, softened as with a breath of worldliness the grave outlines of the serious face.  A keen student of women might have seen that the dim religious halo of convent life which still clung to the young girl would soon fade and give way to the brilliancy of the woman of the world.  She was not tall, though of fully average height, and although the dress of that time was ill-adapted to show to advantage either the figure or the movements, it was evident, as she stepped lightly from the carriage, that she had a full share of ease and grace.  She possessed that unconscious certainty in motion which proceeds naturally from the perfect proportion of all the parts, and which exercises a far greater influence over men than a faultless profile or a dazzling skin.

Instead of taking her father’s arm, Donna Faustina turned and looked at the face of the wounded Zouave, whom three men had carefully taken from the carriage and were preparing to carry upstairs.  Poor Gouache was hardly recognisable for the smart soldier who had crossed the bridge of Sant’ Angelo half an hour earlier.  His uniform was all stained with mud, there was blood upon his pale face, and his limbs hung down, powerless and limp.  But as the young girl looked at him, consciousness returned, and with it came the sense of acute suffering.  He opened his eyes suddenly, as men often do when they revive after being stunned, and a short groan escaped from his lips.  Then, as he realised that he was in the presence of a lady, he made an effort as though to release himself from the hands of those who carried him, and to stand upon his feet.

“Pardon me, Madame,” he began to say, but Faustina checked him by a gesture.

Meanwhile old Montevarchi had carefully scrutinised the young man’s face, and had recognised him, for they had often met in society.

“Monsieur Gouache!” he exclaimed in surprise.  At the same time he made the men move on with their burden.

“You know him, papa?” whispered Donna Faustina as they followed together.  “He is a gentleman?  I was right?”

“Of course, of course,” answered her father.  “But really, Faustina, had you nothing better to do than to go and look into his face?  Imagine, if he had known you!  Dear me!  If you begin like this, as soon as you are out of the convent—­”