his absence. He has, however, asked me to deliver you his
letter, which explains all."

Signora Rovero took the letter and opened it with eagerness.

"Excuse me, Signor," said she to the Count, "but you must make allowance
for a mother's anxiety."

"So be it," she observed, after having read it. "Taddeo is in no danger
if we except that his fortune may be bad. A hunting party in the
mountains will detain him for two days from us."

"Count," said Signora Rovero, "my son speaks so affectionately of you
that I am led to offer you my own love."

"I have the advantage in that respect, Signora, for the kindness with
which you treated me while here, and the memories I bore away, have ever
since inspired the deepest affection for you."

They entered the saloon, and Signora Rovero introduced Maulear to
Monte-Leone. They saluted each other with the most exquisite politeness,
but without exchanging a glance.

Between love and hate there is this in common: it sees without the eye;
it hears without the ear. Love has a presentiment of love, and hatred of
hatred.

Monte-Leone approached Aminta. All his power and energy were
insufficient to triumph over the violent agitation which took possession
of him when he spoke to the young girl. His loving heart offered but
faint opposition to the torrent of passion, which had been so long
repressed that it was ready to bear away every obstacle. Aminta blushed
and became troubled when she recognized in the vibration of his voice
all the emotion Monte-Leone experienced. The conversation became
general. Signora Rovero spoke to the Count of his trial, the incidents
of which the Marquis had been kind enough to read. The Count bowed to
the Marquis as if to acknowledge a favor. Maulear looked away to avoid
the necessity of acknowledging it. The Count seemed not to perceive it.
Aminta became aware that if he kept silent longer the circumstance would
be remarked.

"During your imprisonment, Count, in the Castle _Del Uovo_, I have heard
that a terrible episode occurred, the details of which the _Diaro_ does
not give."

"The reason was the _Diario_ did not know them. True, like other
journalists he might have invented them, but he did not do so; and,
perhaps, acted well, for his fancies could not have equalled the truth."

The Count then simply, without exaggeration, and especially without that
petition for pity which is so frequently met with, told the story of the
terrible scene in the pr