el very shy), "will you tell me the names of the beautiful
mountains around? I have seen so little--I am so ignorant."

"I will, I will," replied Marescotti, speaking rapidly, his glowing
eyes raising themselves from her face to look out over the distance;
"but, in mercy, grant me a few moments to collect myself. Remember I
am a poet; imagination is my world; the unreal my home; the Muses my
sisters. I live there above, in the golden clouds"--and he turned and
pointed to a crest of glittering vapor sailing across the intense blue
of the sky. Then, with his hand pressed on his brow, he began to pace
rapidly up and down the narrow platform.

The cavaliere and Baldassare were watching him from the farther end of
the tower.

"He! he!" said Trenta, and he gave a little laugh and nudged
Baldassare. "Do you see the count? He is fairly off. Marescotti is too
poetical for this world. Unpractical, poor fellow--very unpractical.
The fit is on him now. Look at him, Baldassare; see how he stares
about, and clinches his fist. I hope he will not leap over the parapet
in his ecstasy."

"Ha! ha!" responded Baldassare, who with eyes wide open, and hands
thrust into his pockets, leaned back beside Trenta against the wall.
"Ha, ha!--I must laugh," Baldassare whispered into his ear--"I cannot
help it--look how the count's lips are moving. He is in the most
extraordinary excitement."

"It's all very fine," rejoined Trenta, "but I wonder he does not
frighten Enrica. There she stands, quite still. I can't see her face,
but she seems to like it. It's all very fine," he repeated, nodding
his white head reflectively. "Republicans, communists, orators, poets,
heretics--all the plagues of hell! Dio buono! give me a little plain
common-sense--plain common-sense, and a paternal government. As to
Marescotti, these new-fangled notions will turn his brain; he'll end
in a mad-house. I don't believe he is quite in his senses at this very
minute. Look! look! What strides he is taking up and down! For the
love of Heaven, my boy, run and fasten the trap-door tight! He
may fall through! He's not safe! I swear it, by all the saints!"
Baldassare, shaking with suppressed laughter, secured the trap-door.

"I must say you are a little hard on the count," Baldassare said.
"Why, he's only composing. I know his way. Trust me, it's a sonnet. He
is composing a sonnet addressed perhaps to the signorina. He admires
her very much."

Trenta smiled, and mentally de