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up as a library. Over the chimney was a large picture, covered by a silk curtain. To this Gerald eagerly turned his eyes, for he already marked that the gilded eagle that surmounted the frame held in his beak a wreath of flowers, interwoven with laurel leaves. 'One whose enthusiasm equals your own, boy, placed the wreath there, on the 17th of January last. It was the festa of Vittorio Alfieri,' said the Duchess, as she gently pulled the cord that drew back the curtain. Gerald moved eagerly forward--gazed--passed his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a fancy--gazed again and again--and then, turning round, stood steadfastly staring at the Count himself. A faint, sad smile was on the calm and haughty face; but, as it passed away, the boy dropped down upon his knees, and seizing the other's hand, kissed it rapturously, as he cried-- 'Oh! that I should have ever known a moment like this! Tell me, I beseech thee, Signor Conte, is my brain wandering, or are you Alfieri?' 'Yes, boy,' said he, with a slight sigh, while he raised him from the ground, laying one hand gently on his shoulder. 'It is with reason, boy, you are proud of this event in your life,' said the Duchess. 'The truly great are few in this world of ours; and you now stand before one whose memory will be treasured when we are all dust.' The poet did not seem to heed or hear these words, but stood calmly watching the boy, who continued to turn his eyes alternately from the picture to the original. 'I suspect, boy,' said he, with a smile, 'that your mind-drawn picture satisfied you better--is it not so?' 'O! you who can so read hearts, why will you not interpret mine?' cried Gerald, in rapture; for now to his memory in quick succession were rising the brilliant fancies, the splendid images, the heart-moving words of one whose genius had been a sort of worship to him. 'This, too, is fame!' said the poet, turning to the Duchess. 'But we are keeping you too long from your guests, madam; and Gherardi and I will have many an opportunity of meeting. Come up here to-morrow in the forenoon, and let me talk with you. The youth is more complimentary to me than was the cardinal yesterday.' 'What was it that he said?' asked she. 'He wondered I should have written the tragedy of "Saul," since we had it already in the Bible! To-morrow, Gherardi, about eleven, or even earlier--_a rivederlo!_' As with slow steps, half in a dream, and scarce daring t
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