our thoughts."

"Yes," exclaimed the count, clasping his hands; "I have been longing
to do so ever since I first saw you. Will you permit it? If so, give
me paper and pencil, that I may write."

Enrica had neither. Rising from the ground, she crossed over to where
Trenta sat, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the roofs of
his native city. Fortunately, after diving into various pockets, he
found a pencil and the fly-leaf of a letter. Marescotti took them and
retreated to the farther end of the tower; Enrica leaned against the
wall beside the cavaliere.

In a few minutes the count joined them; he returned the pencil with a
bow to the cavaliere. The sonnet was already written on the fly-leaf
of the letter.

"Oh!" cried Enrica, "give me that paper, I know it will tell me my
fate. Give it to me. Count, do not refuse me." Her look, her manner,
was eager--imploring. As the count drew back, she endeavored to seize
the paper from his hand. But Marescotti, holding the paper above
his head, in one moment had crushed it in his fingers, and, rushing
forward, he flung it over the battlements.

"It is not worthy of you!" he exclaimed, with excitement; "it is
worthy neither of you nor of me! No, no," and he leaned over the
tower, and watched the paper as it floated downward in the still air.
"Let it perish."

"Oh! why have you destroyed it?" cried Enrica, greatly distressed.
"That paper would have told me all I want to know. How cruel! how
unkind!"

But there was no help for it. No lamentation could bring the paper
back again. The sonnet was gone. Marescotti had sacrificed the man to
the poet. His artistic sense had conquered.

"Excuse me, dear signorina," he pleaded, "the composition was
imperfect. It was too hurried. With your permission, on my return,
I will address some other verses to you, more appropriate--more
polished."

"Ah! they will not be like those. They will not tell me what I want
to know. They cannot come from your very soul like those. The power to
divine is gone from you." Enrica could hardly restrain her tears.

"I am very sorry," answered the count, "but I could not help it; I did
it unconsciously."

"Indeed, count, you did very wrong," put in the cavaliere; "one
understands you wrote _in furore_--so much the better," and Trenta
gave a sly wink, which was entirely lost on Marescotti. "But time
is getting on. When are we to have that oration on the history and
beauties of Lucca that we came