uture life, and--the life of
another," he adds, in a lower tone. "You appear to have anticipated me
by desiring to send for me. You are, of course, aware of my errand?"

As he asks this question, there is, spite of himself, a slight tremor
in his voice, and the usual ruddiness of his cheeks pales a little.

"How very mysterious!" exclaims the count, throwing himself back in
his chair. "You look like a benevolent conspirator, cavaliere! Surely,
my dear old friend, you are not about to change your opinions, and to
become a disciple of freedom?"

"Change my opinions! At my age, count!--Che, che!"--Trenta waves his
hand impatiently. "When a man arrives at my age, he does not change
his opinions--no, count, no; it is, if you will permit me to say so,
it is yourself in whom the change is to be wrought--yourself only--"

The count, who is still leaning back in his chair in an attitude of
polite attention, starts violently, sits straight upright, and fixes
his eyes upon Trenta.

"What do you mean, cavaliere? After a life devoted to my country, you
cannot imagine I should change? The very idea is offensive to me."

"No, no, my dear count, you misapprehend me," rejoins Trenta,
soothingly. (He perceived the mistake into which the word "change"
had led Count Marescotti, and dreaded exciting his too susceptible
feelings.) "It is no change of that kind I allude to; the change I
mean is in the nature of a reward for the life of sacrifice you have
led--a reward, a consolation to your fervid spirit. It is to bring
you into an atmosphere of peace, happiness, and love. To reconcile you
perhaps, as a son, erring, but repentant, with that Holy Mother Church
to which you still belong. This is the change I am come to offer you."

As the cavaliere proceeds, the count's expressive eyes follow every
word he utters with a look of amazement. He is about to reply, but
Trenta places his finger on his lips.

"Let me continue," he says, smiling blandly. "When I have done, you
shall answer. In one word, count, it is marriage I am come to propose
to you."

The count suddenly rises from his seat, then he hurriedly reseats
himself. A look of pain comes into his face.

"Permit me to proceed," urges the cavaliere, watching him anxiously.
"I presume you mean to marry?"

Marescotti was silent. Trenta's naturally piping voice grows shriller
as he proceeds, from a certain sense of agitation.

"As the common friend of both parties, I am come to pro