up to hear? Had you not better begin?"

The count was engaged at that moment in plucking a sprig of bay for
himself and for the cavaliere to wear, as he said, "in memoriam." "I
am ready," he replied. "It is a subject that I love."

"Let us begin with the mountains; they are the nearest to God." As
he pronounced that name, the count raised his eyes reverently, and
uncovered his head. Enrica had placed herself on his right hand, but
all interest had died out of her face. She only listened mechanically.

(Yes, the mountains, the glorious mountains! There they were--before,
behind, in front; range upon range--peak upon peak, like breakers on
a restless sea! Mountains of every shade, of every shape, of every
height. Already their mighty tops were flecked with the glow of the
western sunbeams; already pink and purple mists had gathered upon
their sides, filling the valleys with mystery!)

"There," said the count, pointing in the direction of the winding
river Serchio, "is La Panga, the loftiest Apennine in Central Italy.
The peaked summits of those other mountains more to the right are the
marble-bosomed range of Carrara. One might believe them at this time
covered with a mantle of snow, but for the ardent sun, the deep green
of the belting plains, and the luxuriance of the forests. Yonder steep
chestnut-clothed height that terminates the valley opening before us
is Bargilio, a mountain fortress of the Panciatici over the Baths of
Lucca."

Marescotti paused to take breath. Enrica's eyes languidly followed the
direction of his hand. The cavaliere, standing on his other side, was
adjusting his spectacles, the better to distinguish the distance.

"To the south," continued the count, pointing with his finger--"in the
centre of that rich vine-trellised Campagna, lies Pescia, a garden
of luscious fruits. Beyond, nestling in the hollows of the Apennines,
shutting in the plain of that side, is ancient Lombard-walled
Pistoja--the key to the passes of Northern Italy. Farther on, nearer
Florence, rise the heights of Monte Catni, crowned as with a diadem
by a small burgh untouched since the middle ages. Nearer at hand,
glittering like steel in the sunshine, is the lake of Bientina. You
can see its low, marshy shores fringed by beauteous woodlands, but
without a single dwelling."

Enrica, in a fit of abstraction, leaned over the parapet. Her eyes
were riveted upon the city beneath. Marescotti followed her eyes.

"Yes," said he, "