The Engineer-in-Chief noticed nothing, and two days later, the term of his leave having expired, he went away peacefully in his boat, wrapped in his great, grey travelling cloak, and accompanied by Cia, the housekeeper. Ten days passed without further developments, and Franco and Luisa concluded that a trap had been set for them, and that, after all, the police would not appear. On the evening of the first of October they played tarocchi merrily with Puttini and Pasotti, and then, their guests having left early, they went to bed. When Luisa kissed the child, who was sleeping, she noticed that her flesh was hot. She felt of her hands and legs. "Maria is feverish," she said.

Franco took up the candle and looked at her. Maria was sleeping with her little head drooping towards her left shoulder as usual. The lovely little face which always wore a frown when she was asleep, was slightly flushed, and the breathing rather quick. Franco was alarmed, and at once thought of scarlet fever, the measles, gastric, and brain fever. Luisa, who was more calm, thought of worms, and prepared a dose of santonine, which she placed ready on the pedestal. Then both father and mother went noiselessly to bed, put out the light and lay listening anxiously to the little one's short, quick breathing. At last they dozed, but towards midnight they were aroused by Maria, who was crying. They lighted the candle and Maria became quiet and took the santonine. Then presently she began to cry again, and wanted to be taken into the big bed, between mamma and papa, and finally went to sleep there; but her sleep was uneasy and often interrupted by sobs.

Franco kept the candle burning that he might watch her more closely. He and his wife were bending over their darling when two knocks sounded in quick succession on the street-door. Franco started up in bed. "Did you hear?" said he. "Hush!" said Luisa, grasping his arm, and listening. Two more knocks sounded, louder still, and Franco exclaimed: "The Police!" and sprang to the floor. "Go, go!" Luisa begged in a low tone. "Don't let them take you! Go by the little courtyard! Climb over the wall!" He did not answer, but hastily threw on some clothes and rushed from the room, heedless of danger, and determined never of his own free will to leave his Luisa and his sick child.

He dashed down the stairs. "Who is there?" he inquired, without opening the door. "The Police!" some one answered. "Open at once." "At this hour I open to no one I do not see."

A short dialogue ensued in the street. The voice he had heard first said: "You speak to him," and the voice that spoke next was very familiar to Franco.

"Open, Signor Maironi."

It was the Receiver. Franco threw the door open. A gentleman, dressed in black and wearing spectacles, entered, and was followed by the mastiff; after the mastiff came a gendarme with a lantern, then three other armed gendarmes, two of whom were subalterns while the other was of higher rank, and carried a large leathern bag. Some one remained outside.

"Are you Signor Maironi?" said the man in spectacles, a police-adjunct, or detective from Milan. "Come upstairs with me." And the whole party started upstairs, with the thud of heavy steps and the rattling of military trappings.

They had not yet reached the first floor when a light fell on the stairs from above, and sobs and groans were heard on the second floor.

"Is that your wife?" asked the detective.

"Do you fancy it is?" Franco retorted ironically. The Receiver murmured: "It is probably the servant." The detective turned and gave an order; two gendarmes started forward and went rapidly up to the second floor. More sharply than before the adjunct asked Franco: "Is your wife in bed?" "Of course."

"Where? She must get up."

The door of the alcove-room was thrown open, and Luisa appeared in her dressing-gown, with flowing hair, and bearing a candle in her hand. At the same moment a gendarme leaned over the banisters on the upper floor, and said that the servant had nearly fainted away, and could not come down. The detective ordered him to leave his companion with the woman, and to descend. Then he saluted the lady, who did not reply. In the hope that Franco had fled, she had hastened to leave the room in order to detain and, if possible, deceive the police. She now saw her husband and shuddered, her heart beating wildly, but she composed herself at once.

The detective stepped forward to enter the room. "No!" Franco exclaimed. "Some one is ill in there." Luisa clutched the handle of the closed door, looking the man straight in the face.

"Who is ill?" asked the detective.

"A little girl."

"Well, what harm do you suppose we shall do her?"

"Pardon me," said Luisa almost defiantly, and giving the handle a nervous shake, "must you all go in?"

"All of us."

At the sound of voices and the rattling of the door-handle little Maria had begun to cry in a weary and forlorn voice that was heart-rending. "Luisa," said Franco, "let these gentlemen do their work."

The detective was a fashionably-dressed young man, with a refined but cruel face. He threw Franco a sinister glance. "Obey your husband, Signora," said he, glad of an opportunity to retaliate. "I think he is prudent."

"Less prudent than you are, who bring a whole army as escort," Luisa retorted, opening the door. He glanced at her, shrugged his shoulders, and passed in, followed by the others.

"Open everything here," said he roughly, in a loud voice, pointing to the writing-desk. Franco's big, blue eyes flashed. "Speak softly!" said he. "Do not frighten my child."

"Silence, you!" the detective thundered, bringing his fist down upon the desk. "Open!"

At that noise the child began to sob violently. Franco, who was furious, flung the key upon the desk.

"Open it yourself," said he.

"You are under arrest!" cried the detective.

"Very well."

While Franco was answering thus, Luisa, who had bent low over her baby, trying to pacify her, raised her face impetuously.

"I also have a right to that honour," said she, in her fine, ringing voice.

The detective did not deign to reply, but ordered a gendarme to open all the drawers of the writing-desk, and he himself searched them, removing all the letters, examining them rapidly, throwing some on the floor, and tossing others into the great leathern bag. After the writing-desk it was the turn of the chests of drawers, where everything was turned upside down. Then Maria's little bed was inspected. The detective ordered Luisa to remove the child from the big bed, which he also intended to examine.

"Then put the little bed in order for me," Luisa replied, quivering with rage. Up to this moment, the mastiff, Carlascia, had stood silent and stiff behind his moustaches, as if this operation, which he had perhaps desired in the abstract, were proving not entirely to his taste, now that it was being put into practice. He came forward and began arranging the mattresses and sheets of the little bed with his great ugly paws. Luisa placed the child in it, and then the large bed was torn to pieces and examined, but without any result. Maria had stopped crying, and was staring at the scene of confusion with wide eyes.

"Now follow me, both of you," said the adjunct. Luisa, who believed she was to be led away with her husband, demanded that the servant be summoned, that she might give the child into her care. At the idea that Luisa was under arrest, that the sick child was to be deprived of her mother also, Franco, beside himself with rage and grief, uttered a protesting cry—

"This is not possible! Say it is not so!"

The detective did not vouchsafe a reply, but ordered that the servant be brought in. The maid, half dead with fright, entered between two gendarmes, groaning and sobbing.

"Fool!" Franco muttered between his teeth.

"The woman will stay here with the child," said the adjunct. "Both of you will come with me. You must be present when the rest of the house is searched." He sent for some lights, left a gendarme in the alcove-room, and went into the hall, followed by the other gendarmes, Bianconi, Franco, and Luisa.

"Before continuing the search," said he, "I will ask you a question I should have asked before had your conduct been more correct. Tell me whether you have any weapons, or seditious publications, or papers either printed or in manuscript, which are hostile to the Imperial and Royal Government."

Franco answered, in a loud tone—

"No."

"That is what we shall see," said the detective.

"Do as you like."

While the adjunct was causing furniture to be moved away from the wall, and was searching and peering everywhere, Luisa remembered that eight or ten years before her uncle had shown her in the chest of drawers of a room on the second floor, an old sabre that had lain there ever since 1812. It had belonged to another Pietro Ribera, a lieutenant of cavalry, who had fallen at Malojaroslavetz. No one ever slept in that room above the kitchen and it was seldom entered; it was as if it did not exist. Luisa had completely forgotten the old sabre of the Empire. Oh, God! now she recalled it! What if her uncle had forgotten it also? What if he had not given it up in 1848, after the war, when orders had been issued to deliver up all weapons, under pain of death? Had her uncle grasped the fact, in his patriarchal simplicity, that this heir-loom that had lain for six-and-thirty years at the bottom of a drawer, had now become a dangerous and forbidden object? And Franco, Franco who knew nothing! Luisa was resting her hands on the back of a chair; it creaked sharply under her convulsive pressure. She withdrew her hands, frightened, as if the chair had spoken.

In fancy she saw the adjunct pass from room to room with his gendarmes, and arrive at that door, open the drawer, and discover the sabre. She made every effort to recall the exact position in which she had seen it, to find some way out of this danger; and she was silent, mechanically following with her eyes the candle which a gendarme, in obedience to his chief's gestures, held close, now to an open drawer or cupboard, now to a picture which the detective had lifted, that he might look behind it. No, she could think of no remedy. If her uncle had failed to remove the sabre, she could only trust they would not visit that room.

Franco, leaning against the stove, was following every motion of the searchers with a clouded brow. When they plunged their hands into the drawers, his rage was visible in the silent working of his jaws. Nothing was heard save, now and then, a sharp order from the detective, and a low-toned reply from the gendarmes. Nothing moved around them, save their great shadows wavering on the walls. The silence of the Receiver, of Franco and Luisa, was like the silence of those who have risked great sums in a secret gaming-house, and stand about the players who, from time to time, speak some brief word. The sinister face and voice of the detective never changed, although he had not discovered anything. To Luisa he seemed a man sure of achieving his purpose. And not to be able to do anything, not even warn Franco! But perhaps it was better he did not know; perhaps his ignorance would save him.

Having searched the hall and the loggia the detective entered the salon. He took the candle from the gendarme's hands and swiftly examined the little, illustrious men.

Seeing the portraits of Gouvion Saint-Cyr, Marmont, and other generals of Napoleon, he said: "The Engineer-in-Chief Ribera would have done far better to hang the portrait of His Excellency Field-Marshal Radetzky on his walls. Is it here?"

"No," said Franco.

"A nice government official!" said the other contemptuously, and with indescribable arrogance.

"Are government officials bound," Franco burst forth, "to hang the portraits——"

"I am not here to argue with you," the detective said, interrupting him.

Franco was about to answer. "Be quiet, you with your tongue a yard long!" said the Receiver, brutally.

The detective passed from the drawing-room into the corridor leading to the stairs. Would he go up or not, Luisa wondered. He went up, and she followed him, not trembling, but imagining with a dizzy rapidity, the many different things that might happen. All the possibilities of the moment, both disastrous and favourable, were whirling, as it were, in her head. If she lingered upon the first, horror carried her with a bound to the second; if she dwelt upon these, fancy returned with perverse eagerness to the first.

Before they had set foot in the corridor of the second floor they heard Maria crying. Franco begged the adjunct to allow his wife to go down to the child, but she protested that she wished to remain. The idea of not being with him when the weapon was discovered, terrified her. Meanwhile the detective had entered a small room where there were some books, and finding a volume printed at Capolago, and bearing the title, Literary Writings of a Living Italian, he said: "Who is this living Italian?" "Padre Cesari," Franco replied boldly. The other, deceived by his prompt answer and the priestly name, assumed the air of a man of culture, saying: "Ah! I am acquainted with his works." Replacing the book, he inquired where the Engineer-in-Chief slept.

Luisa was too completely dominated by the one great dread to sense anything else, but Franco, when he saw the police-agent and his band enter the uncle's room, which was so clean, so neat, so full of his dear, calm spirit, when he reflected what a blow to the poor old man the news of all this would be, was completely overcome, and could have wept with rage. "It seems to me," he said, "that this one room at least should be respected."

"Keep your observations to yourself," the adjunct retorted, and began by ordering the blankets and mattresses stripped from the bed. Then he demanded the key to the chest of drawers. Franco had it, and went down to his room for it, accompanied by a gendarme. The uncle had entrusted it to him before leaving, telling him that in case of need he would find a small amount of cum quibus in the top drawer. They opened it. It contained a roll of svanziche, a few letters and papers, some pocket-books, old note-books, compasses, pencils, and a small wooden bowl in which were several coins.

The detective examined everything carefully, discovering among the coins in the little bowl a five-franc piece of the time of Carlo Alberto, and a forty-franc piece of the Provisory Government of Lombardy. "The Engineer-in-Chief has preserved these coins with extraordinary care," said the detective; "henceforth we will preserve them." He closed the drawer, and, without opening the others, returned the key to Franco.

Then he went out into the corridor and paused, undecided. The Receiver thought he intended to go down, and as the corridor was nearly dark, and the stairs were not visible, he, who was acquainted with the house, started towards the right in the direction of the stairs, saying: "This way." The room where the sabre lay was on the left.

"Wait," said the adjunct. "Let us look in here, also." And turning, he pushed open the fatal door. Luisa, who had been the last in the procession, pressed forward, now that the supreme moment had arrived. Her heart, which had beat furiously while the adjunct hesitated, now became quiet as by a miracle, and she was cool, daring, and ready.

"Who sleeps here?" the detective asked her.

"No one. My uncle's parents used to occupy this room, but they have been dead these forty years, and no one has slept here since."

The room contained two beds, a sofa, and a chest of drawers. This the detective signed to the gendarmes to open. They tried it, but it was locked. "I think I have the key," said Luisa with the utmost indifference. She went down, accompanied by a gendarme, and returned immediately with a little basket of keys which she offered to the detective.

"I do not know the key," she said. "It is never used. It must be one of these."

He tried them all, but in vain. Then the Receiver tried, and then Franco. The right one was not there.

"Send to S. Mamette for the lock-smith," said Luisa, calmly. The Receiver looked at the detective as if to say: "It seems to me unnecessary," but the detective turned his back upon him and exclaimed to Luisa: "This key must be somewhere!"

The chest of drawers, a piece of rococo furniture, had metal handles to each drawer. One of the gendarmes, the strongest, tried to force the drawers open. He did not succeed either with the top one or with the second. Just at that moment Luisa remembered that she had seen the sabre in the third drawer, together with a roll of drawings. The gendarme seized the handles of the third. "This one is not locked," said he. In fact it opened easily. The detective took the light and bent over to examine it.

Franco had seated himself on the sofa, his eyes fixed on the rafters of the ceiling. When his wife saw the drawer pulled open she sank down beside him, took his hand, and pressed it spasmodically.

She heard some papers rustle, and the Receiver murmured, in a benign voice: "Drawings." Then the detective exclaimed: "Ah!" and the satellites all leaned forward to see. She had the strength to rise and inquire; "What is it?" The detective was holding a long pasteboard case, curved and slim, and bearing a label with an inscription. He had already read the inscription to himself; he now read it aloud with an accent of ineffable sarcasm and satisfaction. "The sabre of Lieutenant Pietro Ribera, killed at Malojaroslavetz in 1812." Franco started to his feet, astounded and incredulous, and at the same moment the adjunct opened the case. From where he stood Franco could not see it, and he glanced at his wife, who could. Her lips were white and he thought it was with fright, although this did not seem possible.

But her lips were white with joy, for the case contained only an empty scabbard. Luisa suddenly drew back into the shadow and sank upon the sofa, struggling with a violent inward trembling, vexed with herself and ashamed of her weakness, which however, she soon conquered. Meanwhile the detective, who had removed the scabbard and examined it on all sides, asked Franco where the sabre was. Franco was about to answer that he did not know, which was perfectly true, but reflecting that this might seem like self-justification, he said—

"In Russia."

The sabre was not in Russia, but fast in the mud, at the bottom of the lake, where Uncle Piero had secretly flung it rather than give it up. "But why did they write sabre?" inquired the Receiver, wishing to show he also was zealous.

"The writer is dead," said Franco.

"Hand over that key at once!" the detective scolded angrily. And this time Luisa found it, and the two other drawers were opened. One was empty, the other contained some blankets and a little lavender.

The search ended here. The adjunct went down to the drawing-room, and ordered Franco to make ready to follow him in fifteen minutes. "You had better arrest all of us then!" Luisa exclaimed.

The man shrugged his shoulders, and repeated to Franco: "In fifteen minutes. You may go to your room, now, if you wish to." Franco dragged Luisa away entreating her to be silent, to resign herself for love of Maria. He seemed like another man, exhibiting neither grief nor anger, and there was in his voice a ring of serious sweetness, of manly calm.

He put some linen into a bag, together with a volume of Dante and an Almanach du Jardinier, which were on the table, bent over Maria for a moment but did not kiss her, for she had gone to sleep, and he feared to wake her. He kissed Luisa, however, but as they were being observed by the gendarmes stationed at either door of the room, he quickly freed himself from her embrace, saying, in French, that they must not provide a spectacle for those gentlemen. Then he took up his bag, and went to place himself at the detective's orders.

The police-adjunct had a boat waiting not fifty paces from Casa Ribera, towards Albogasio, at the landing called del Canevaa. Upon issuing from the portico spanned by his house, Franco heard a shutter being thrown open above his head, and saw the light from his bedroom flash against the white faÇade of the church. He turned towards the window, saying—

"Send for the doctor to-morrow morning. Good-bye."

Luisa did not answer.

When the gendarmes reached the Canevaa with their prisoner, the adjunct ordered them to stop.

"Signor Maironi," said he, "you have had your lesson. This time you may return to your home, and I advise you to learn to respect the Authorities."

Amazement, joy, and indignation welled up in Franco's heart. He controlled himself, however, biting his lips, and started homewards at a leisurely pace. He had not yet turned the corner of the church when Luisa recognised his step, and called, "Franco!"

He sprang forward, and she saw him. Then her shadow vanished from the window. He rushed into the house, flung himself up the stairs, crying, "Free! Free!" while his wife came flying down, exclaiming wildly, "How! How! How!" They sought each other with eager arms, clung together, pressing close, without further speech.

But afterwards, in the loggia, they talked incessantly for two hours, of all they had heard, seen, and experienced, always coming back to the sabre, the papers, the coins, dwelling upon many trifling details, on the detective's Venetian accent, on the dark-haired gendarme, who seemed a good fellow, and the fair-haired gendarme, who must be a regular cur. From time to time they would cease speaking, enjoying in silence their sense of security, the sweetness of home, but presently they would begin again. Before going to bed they stepped out on the terrace. The night was dark and warm, the lake motionless. The sultriness, the gloom, the vague and monstrous shapes of the mountains, seemed to their imagination heavy with the mortal weight of Austria. The very air itself seemed full of it. Neither Franco nor Luisa was sleepy, but they must go to bed on account of the servant who was watching with Maria. They entered the room on tiptoe. The child was sleeping, her breathing almost normal.

They also tried to sleep, but could not. They could not refrain from talking, especially Franco. He would ask softly: "Are you asleep?" and upon her answering, "No," the coins, the papers, the sabre, or the bully with his Venetian accent would be discussed once more. By this time there was nothing new to be said on these subjects, and, as Maria began to be restless, and to show signs of waking, towards dawn, Luisa answered, "Yes," the next time Franco inquired softly, "Are you asleep?" and after that he kept quiet, as if he really believed it.

The day after the search at Casa Ribera, Oria, Albogasio, and S. Mamette were full of whisperings. "Have you heard?—Oh, dear Lord!—Have you heard?—Oh, holy Madonna!" But the loudest whisperings were of course those that communicated the news to Barborin Pasotti. Her husband shouted into her face: "Maironi! Police! Gendarmes! Arrest!" The poor woman concluded an army had swept her friends away, and began to puff—"oh! oh!"—like an engine. Then she groaned and wept, and questioned Pasotti about the child. Pasotti, who was determined not to allow her to go down to Oria and exhibit her affection for the Maironis under these circumstances, replied with a gesture like the sweep of a broom. Gone! Gone! She also!—But the servant? The servant must surely be there still. The crafty man made another sweeping gesture in the air, and then Barborin grasped the fact that His Imperial and Royal Austrian Majesty had had the servant carried off as well.

But the most malicious whisperings were uttered at a great distance from Valsolda, in a room in the Maironi Palace, at Brescia. Ten days after the search the Chevalier Greisberg di S. Giustina, a cousin of the Maironis, who had been attached to the government of Field-Marshal Radetzky in Verona until 1853, and had then accompanied his master to Milan, alighted at the door of Casa Maironi from the carriage of the Imperial and Royal Delegate of Brescia, whose guest he had been for some days. The Chevalier, a handsome man of about forty, perfumed, and smartly dressed, did not look particularly happy as he stood very erect in the centre of the reception room, examining the ancient stucco-work of the ceiling, and waiting for the Marchesa, who was of the same period. Nevertheless, when the door opposite him, pushed open by a servant's hand, admitted Madam's big person, marble countenance, and black wig, the Chevalier was at once transformed, and kissed the old lady's wrinkled hand with fervour. A Lombard gentlewoman devoted to Austria was a rare animal, and extremely precious to the Imperial and Royal government. Every loyal functionary owed her the most obsequious gallantry. The Marchesa received the homage of her cousin the Chevalier with her usual unruffled dignity, and having invited him to be seated, enquired after his family and thanked him for his call, all in the same guttural and sleepy tone. Finally, slightly out of breath from the fatigue of uttering so many words, she crossed her hands over her stomach, and let it be seen that she was now waiting for what her cousin might have to say.

She expected he would speak about Engineer Ribera and the search. She had on previous occasions expressed to him her displeasure that Franco should be under the influence of his wife and Ribera, and her surprise that the government should retain in its service one who in 1848 had openly played the Liberal, and whose family—especially that artful young woman—professed the most impudent Liberalism. The Chevalier Greisberg had assured her that her wise observations should be given due consideration. Then the Marchesa had instigated the Commissary ZÉrboli against the poor Engineer-in-Chief, and it had been through ZÉrboli that she had heard of the search. Therefore, when Greisberg appeared she concluded he had come to speak of that. Now, she was quite willing to make the government serve her own private rancour, but, as a matter of principle, she never recognised a debt of gratitude toward any one. By thus subjecting a doubtful functionary to examination, the Austrian government had been working in its own interests. She had not asked for anything; it was not for her to ask, it was for the Chevalier to speak first. But the Chevalier, cunning, sly, and proud, did not understand his rÔle in this way. The old woman wanted a favour, and in order to obtain it she must bow down and kiss the beneficent claws of government.

He remained silent for some time, to collect his thoughts, and in the hope that the other would yield. Seeing that she remained mute and unbending, he himself became suddenly smiling and gracious, told her that he had come from Verona, and proposed that she guess what route he had taken. He had passed through such a sweet town, had seen such a charming villa, so splendid, a real paradise! The Marchesa was not good at guessing; she asked if he had been in Brianza. No, he had not come from Verona to Brescia by way of Brianza. He once more described the villa, and this time so minutely that the Marchesa could not help recognising her own estate of Monzambano. Then the Chevalier proposed that she guess why he had gone to see the villa. She guessed at once, guessed the whole plot of the comedy that was being acted for her benefit, but her dull face said nothing of this. The Delegate had once before sounded her to ascertain if she would be willing to let the villa to His Excellency the Marshal, but she—having been secretly threatened with fire and death by the Liberals of Brescia—had found some polite excuses. She now perceived in Greisberg's words the tacit offer of a bargain, and stood on her guard. She confessed to her cousin that she was unable to guess even this. Indeed she felt she was growing more and more stupid every day. The effect of years and grief! "I have had a great grief very lately," she said. "I am told that the Police have searched my grandson's house at Oria."

Greisberg, feeling that this elderly hypocrite was slipping through his fingers, now pulled off his glove, and seized her with his talons. "Marchesa," said he, in a tone which admitted of no rejoinder, "you must not speak of grief! Through the Commissary of Porlezza and myself, you have furnished precious information to the government, of which service it is not unmindful. Not a hair of your grandson's head was touched, nor will be, if he is judicious. But, on the other hand, I regret that we may perhaps not be able to adopt severe measures against another person who has injured you seriously in private matters. In order to find a means of reaching this person the Commissary has even exceeded his duty. You must understand once for all, Marchesa, that this is not a question of grief, and that you are especially indebted to the government." The Marchesa had never before been spoken to in such strong language and with such formidable authority. Perhaps the continuous, undulating movement of neck and head visible above her stiffly-held body, corresponded with the angry beating of her heart, but it seemed the movement of some animal struggling to swallow an enormous mouthful. At any rate she did not unbend sufficiently to speak a word of acquiescence. Only, having regained her obese calm, she observed that she had never demanded that measures be adopted against any one; that she was glad the search had revealed nothing incriminating against Engineer Ribera; that, nevertheless, all sorts of things had been said in Casa Ribera, but that words were difficult to trace. The Chevalier replied more gently, that he could not say whether anything had been discovered, and that the last word would be spoken by the Marshal himself, who intended to give this matter his personal attention. This remark enabled him to return to the subject of the villa at Monzambano. He asked for it formally for His Excellency, who wished to go there within a week. The Marchesa thanked him for the great honour, which she said, her villa did not deserve; it seemed to her too dilapidated, it wanted repairing, and His Excellency must be informed of this. She wished to defer her decision, to await the payment of the miserable price of her condescension, but the Chevalier struck another blow with his talons, and declared she must answer at once, answer clearly, yes or no, and the old lady was forced to bow her head. "To accommodate His Excellency," she said. Greisberg at once became amiable again, and jested about the measures to be adopted against that Signor Ingegnere. There was no question of spilling blood, only a little ink need be spilled. There was no question of depriving any one of liberty, rather of conferring perfect liberty on somebody. The Marchesa made no sign. She sent for two lemonades, and drank hers slowly in little sips, not without a faint expression of satisfaction between the sips, as if this lemonade had a new and exquisite flavour. But the Chevalier wished for an explicit word from her concerning Ribera, a confession of her desire, and placing the glass he had hastily drained upon the tray, he said, "I will see to this myself, you know, and we shall succeed. Are you satisfied?"

The Marchesa continued to sip the lemonade slowly, slowly, gazing into the glass.

"Does that suit you?" her cousin asked, having waited in vain for an answer.

"Yes, it is very good," the drowsy voice replied. "I drink it slowly on account of my teeth."

The last whisperings were not human. Luisa and Franco were seated on the grass at Looch, near the cemetery. They were speaking of the mother's great and exquisite goodness, and comparing it to Uncle Piero's great and simple goodness, noting the similarity and the differences. They did not say which sort of goodness, taken as a whole, seemed to them superior, but from the opinions each expressed, their different inclinations could be divined. Franco preferred that goodness which is permeated with faith in the supernatural, while Luisa preferred the other form of goodness. He was grieved by this secret contradiction, but hesitated to reveal it, fearing to sound a too painful note. But it had brought a cloud to his brow, and presently he said, almost involuntarily: "How many misfortunes, how much bitterness your mother suffered, with such great resignation, such strength, such peace! Do you believe that natural goodness alone would be able to suffer thus?" "I do not know," Luisa replied. "I think poor Mamma must have lived in a better world before she was born into this, for her heart was always there." She did not say all she thought. She thought that if all the good souls on earth resembled her mother in religious meekness, this world would become the kingdom of the rascal and the tyrant. And as to ills, which do not come from man, but from the very conditions of human life itself, she felt greater admiration for such as strive against them with their own strength, than for such as invoke and obtain aid from that same Being by whom the blow was dealt. She would not confess these sentiments to her husband, but instead, expressed the hope that her uncle might never suffer deep affliction. Could it be possible that the Lord would wish such a man to suffer? "No, no, no!" Franco exclaimed; at another moment he would not perhaps have dared to admonish God in this manner. A breath of the Boglia swept down the ravine of MuzÀi, and rustled the top branches of the walnut-trees. To Luisa that fluttering seemed connected with Franco's last words; it seemed to her that the wind and the great trees knew something of the future, and were whispering about it together.