old how
he drew wonderful resemblances of birds, and beasts, and men."

"'Tis true," replied Gaspar. "Strange that I should never have thought
of it before."

"So, therefore, the prince offers to patronize the gifted youth, and
send him a couple of years or more to Rome, where he will be able to
make himself a perfect artist, and get fortune at such a rate that he
can soon roll in gold."

"San Dominic!" said the host; "surely Gulielmo's luck has turned. They
say that Jean, last night, was robbed of more than half his store, and
so, I do not know--but Rosa--"

"You're right," interrupted the other speaker. "Two hundred crowns are
yours, provided Rosa waits two years against Gulielmo's safe return."

"Ahem!" exclaimed the somewhat surprised landlord. "How comes it that
you know of this? And yet the girl grieves sorely. I will take you at
your word."

The courier nodded and spake to his master, who, with a pompous air,
told in his open hand the glittering gold, which was seen transferred to
Gaspar's eager grasp.

"And now where is this same Gulielmo?" inquired the courier. "Bring him
hither as quickly as possible. I doubt not, when he hears of his
advancement, that he will leap for joy."

The youth presently arrived. The courier informed him of the matter in
hand, while the prince nodded his head most graciously, and smiled so
grim a smile that all the servants looked on dismayed.

"Haste," said the courier to Gulielmo, "pack up your knapsack as quickly
as may be, and bid Rosa adieu, for it is time that we were on the road
for Rome. There thou shalt undertake the painter's art, and work for
fame and bread. And, if all works prosperously, you shall soon be able
to wed the fairest maid of all the land."

An hour passed; the carriage drew up before the inn door, the host
delivered his most obsequious bow, fair Rosa bade farewell to her lover,
the prince and Gulielmo entered the stately vehicle, and, with a loud
crack of the coachman's whip, the travellers set out for Rome.

CHAPTER III.

THE STUDENT'S RETURN.

THE two years had elapsed, when on a bright June afternoon, a weary
pilgrim halted within a grove which overlooked the village of Sorento.
He gazed around for a moment, as if in expectation of some one, and then
sat down upon a mossy stone.

"It was here," said he, "that he bade me wait on my return. And yet--"

"He is with you," said Sartello, leaving the scraggy laurel behind which
he had c