him
for protection. Indeed, the frantic struggles of old Gaetana, as she
laid about her with her drum-sticks, had already provoked the youth's
laughter, when, at a cry from the girl, he turned quickly around.

'Here's the Princess herself, I 'll be sworn,' said a coarse-looking
fellow, as, seizing Marietta's arm, he tried to drag her forward.

With a blow of his clenched fist Gerald sent him reeling back, and then,
drawing the short scimitar which he wore as part of his costume, he
swept the space in front of him, while he grasped the girl with his
other arm. So unlooked-for a defiance seemed for an instant to unman
the mob, but the next moment a shower of missiles, the fragments of old
Babbo's fortune, were showered upon them. Had he been assailed by wild
beasts, Gerald's assault could not have been more wildly daring: he
cut on every side, hurling back those that rushed in upon him, and even
trampling them beneath his feet.

Bleeding and bruised, half-blinded, too, by the blood that flowed from
a wound on his forehead, the youth still held his ground, not a word
escaping him, not a cry; while the reviling of the mob filled the air
around. At last, shamed at the miserable odds that had so long resisted
them, the rabble, with a wild yell of vengeance, rushed forward in a
mass, and though some of the foremost fell covered with blood, the youth
was dashed to the ground, all eagerly pressing to trample on and crush
him.

'Over the parapet with him! Into the Arno with them both!' cried the
mob.

'Stand back, ye cowardly crew!' shouted a loud, strong voice, and a
powerful man, with a heavy bludgeon in his hand, burst through the
crowd, felling all that opposed him; a throng of livery servants armed
in the same fashion followed; and the mob, far more in number though
they were, shrank back abashed from the sight of one whose rank and
station might exact a heavy vengeance.

'It is the Principe. It is the Conte himself,' muttered one or two, as
they stole off, leaving in a few moments the space cleared of all, save
the wounded and those who had come to the rescue. If the grief of Donna
Gaetana was loudest, the injuries of poor Gerald were the gravest there.
A deep cut had laid open his forehead, another had cleft his shoulder,
while a terrible blow of a stone in the side made his respiration
painful in the extreme.

'Safe, _Marietta mia_; art safe?' whispered he, as she assisted him to
rise. 'My poor boy,' said the Co