n the top of his cane, so tightly does he clutch it. He has learned
below that Count Marescotti lives at No. 4 on the second story; at
the door of No. 4 he raps softly. A voice from within asks, "Who is
there?"

"I," replies Trenta, and he enters.

The count, who is seated at a table near the window, rises. His tall
figure is enveloped in a dark dressing-gown, that folds about him like
a toga. He has all the aspect of a man roused out of deep thought;
his black hair stands straight up in disordered curls all over his
head--he had evidently been digging both his hands into it--his eyes
are wild and abstracted. Taken as he is now, unawares, that expression
of mingled sternness and sweetness in which he so much resembles
Castruccio Castracani is very striking. From the manner he fixes his
eyes upon Trenta it is clear he does not at once recognize him. The
cavaliere returns his stare with a look of blank dismay.

"Oh, carissimo!" the count exclaims at last, his countenance changing
to its usual expression--he holds out both hands to grasp those of
the cavaliere--"how I rejoice to see you! Excuse my absence; I had
forgotten our appointment at the moment. That book"--and he points to
an open volume lying on a table covered with letters, manuscripts, and
piles of printed sheets tossed together in wild confusion--"that book
must plead my excuse; it has riveted me. The wrongs of persecuted
Italy are so eloquently pleaded! Have you read it, my dear cavaliere?
If not, allow me to present you with a copy."

Trenta made a motion with his hand, as if putting both the book and
the subject from him with a certain disgust: he shakes his head.

"I have not read it, and I do not wish to read it," he replies,
curtly.

The poor cavaliere feels that this is a bad beginning; but he quickly
consoles himself--he was of a hopeful temperament, and saw life
serenely and altogether in rose-color--by remembering that the count
is habitually absent, also that he habitually uses strong language,
and that he had probably not been so absorbed by the wrongs of Italy
as he pretends.

"I fear you have forgotten our appointment, count," recommences the
cavaliere, finding that Marescotti is silent, and that his eyes have
wandered off to the pages of the open book.

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Trenta. On the contrary, had you not
come, I was about to send for you. I have a very important matter to
communicate to you."

The cavaliere's face no