CHAPTER XIV.

THE FINALE.

Some falls are means the happier to arise.

-Cymbeline.

THE low rough room of that roadside inn presented a wild and tragic

appearance at that moment. On the floor, her head supported by her

faithful attendant, lay the insensible form of Signora Florinda.

Just at her feet, and standing between her and Petro, was the tall,

manly person of Carlton, his right hand holding a pistol towards the

breast of the former, in whose dark countenance was depicted every

evil passion of the soul. The servants in their fright at the sudden

affray had retired to a distant corner of the apartment, while in

another, with his hands over his face, as if to shut out the horrid

scene before him, stood the person of Florinda's uncle.

"What means this scene?" asked Carlton. "Can some of ye speak and

tell me? Gita, what brought your mistress here, and under such

escort? Speak out, girl-I'll protect you."

"Treachery, signor, dark and deep!" said the girl, whom Florinda had

found it necessary to make a confidant of in relation to the

intended elopement and marriage.

"Noble business for an uncle and nephew!"

"Repeat not those words" said Petro, angrily.

"I repeat them, and am ready to abide by them," said Carlton.

"Cospetto!" exclaimed Petro, in a rage.

"Ay, talk on," said Carlton; "so valiant a knight need have plenty

of words at command."

"Hold, for the love of the virgin, hold both of ye!" said Signor

Latrezzi, foreseeing the catastrophe that must ensue, yet still

remaining with his face hid in his outspread hands.

"By our holy church," said Petro, "must I be met at every turn by

this braggart of an American, who thwarts my dearest wishes, and

foils me at every point? I tell thee I will have thy heart's blood!"

he continued, rushing wildly towards Carlton.

The pistol was raised on a level with the head of the revengeful

Italian, as he advanced furiously, with his stiletto reflecting the

glance of the lamps. Carlton cried to him:

"Have a care, Signor Petro. Thy blood be on thine own head. Stand

back, I say."

"By heaven, I will not longer bear this!"

"I have warned thee!"

But the enraged Petro heeded not the warning of Carlton, upon whom

he was just about to throw himself, when the black throat of the

pistol emitted in liquid fire its fatal contents, and when the

stunning effect of its voice and the smoke had subsided, there lay

the lifeless corpse of Petro upon the floor at the feet of the

American. The ball had passed through his brain; and thus, in the

full tide of life, with health and strength, and, alas! with all the

evil passions of his heart in operation, and his soul craving the

blood of his fellow-man, he had rushed in one moment into eternity.

A fearful death, and a fearful thought; but the deed was now done,

and there was no recalling it. Its fearful consequences were

inevitable, and must be borne by the actors in that scene in the

drama of life.

"Holy virgin, he is dead!" said Signor Latrezzi, as he bent over the

inanimate form of Petro.

"God forgive him!" said Carlton. "He would have taken my life with

that thirsty dagger!"

"By this light, you acted only in self-defence," said the trembling

landlord to Carlton.

"Quick, sir," said Carlton, "remove all appearance of this struggle

before the lady revives."

The sad finale of the tragic scene was at once enacted by the

landlord and his people, who bore the body into a private apartment.

Signor Latrezzi, who had himself to blame for the greater part of

this fatal business, stood horror-struck by the sight now presented

to his view. If he was not the actual murderer, was he not the

instigator of the whole business? He put this question to his

conscience, and it whispered to him in deep and thrilling

tones-guilty, guilty! He would have given everything he possessed,

ay, life itself, to have been able to recall the whole transaction;

but alas! it was now too late, and the consciousness of his guilt

drove him almost to madness.

The servants, who had witnessed the whole affair, could testify that

Carlton had acted only in self-defence in the matter, and from a

conviction of this, they offered no interference. Signor Latrezzi,

after giving direction's for the removal of the body, took his

departure towards the city, without attempting to interfere with

either Carlton or Florinda, whom he left to themselves unmolested.

Florinda happily was insensible of the tragic scene performed in her

presence. When she revived, all traces of the deed were removed, and

she found herself in the care and protection of Carlton.

"Where am I?" she asked, as she recovered from the insensibility

which had seized upon her, when she realized the treachery that had

been played upon her; her eyes resting on Carlton, she clung

instinctively to him for protection. She closed them again, scarcely

daring to trust their evidence, lest she should again realize that

scene.

"Is it a vision or reality?" she asked tremblingly of Carlton.

There is nothing done but has been undone, dearest," was the answer.

"You shall know more when you are more composed."

"But, Carlton, the priest married us," said Florinda, shuddering at

the thought. "I am his wife!"

"Compose thyself, dearest; and believe me, thou art no one's wife,

but still my dear Florinda. All is well."

By degrees as Florinda became more composed, the whole matter was

told to her; and though she deeply sorrowed at the fatal necessity,

yet she could not blame Carlton for taking the life of him who was

at the moment seeking his. They sought her home in Florence, from

whence Carlton was no longer excluded, but came and went at will.

Signor Latrezzi and he never met; but it was plain that the servants

had been ordered to admit him in future, as any other respected

guest of Signora Florinda's.

The uncle's darling project was utterly defeated, and the hopes

thereby of securing himself from his just reward for the dishonest

act he had committed in appropriating a large sum of his niece's

property, was rendered abortive. What course did the old man pursue

in this dilemma? He did that which he should have done years before,

as soon as he awoke to the realization of the crime he had

committed; he went to Florinda, confessed his dishonesty, and begged

her to spare his gray hairs from dishonor. She was but too happy to

relieve him from his misery and suffering on this account.

"Uncle," said she, "give thyself no further uneasiness on this

point, but sit thee down, and draw a paper absolving thyself from

the matter in proper form, and I will sign it."

The paper was drawn and signed, and Signor Latrezzi from that hour

became a different man; he had thoroughly repented.

"You are now content?"

"I am, my dear Florinda, and thankful to you for thus relieving my

mind."

"Say nothing about it, my dear uncle."

"I will not, save in action towards you, Florinda, who have placed

me under lasting obligations."

Though Carlton deeply regretted the fatal occurrence of that night

at the inn on the Apennines, still his conscience did not upbraid

him for the part he had enacted; for though he had taken the life of

Petro, it was done in self-defence, and the court of Florence so

decided, Carlton having given himself up to trial. It would have

gone hard with him, or any foreigner in Italy, and especially in

Tuscany, who should chance to be thus situated; but Carlton had the

all-powerful influence of the Grand Duke Leopold exerted in his

favor, and in this case justice was rendered.

True, it was some time before the American artist was again received

at court, or made his appearance at the Grand Duke's weekly cordon,

as public opinion was against him-and very naturally, too, for he

was a foreigner, and had taken the life of a citizen of Florence,

and one closely allied to the nobility and gentle blood. But after

the decision of the court-which the duke took good care to have made

in the most imposing and public form-was thoroughly understood, and

the memory of the matter had grown a little dim, Carlton again

resumed his place at court, as the protege of the Grand Duke, and

royal favor was again shown him.

Signor Latrezzi shut himself from society for many months almost

broken-hearted, now fully realizing the error of his conduct in

relation to Florinda and Petro. The generous act of the former in

absolving him from the responsibility he had incurred in relation to

her estate, had done much to awaken his better feelings. Petro he

had loved with the affection of a father, and he now keenly mourned

his untimely end. People saw the great change in Signor Latrezzi,

for he no longer sought to oppress any one, but in his few public

dealings he was strictly honorable and true.

He had indeed thoroughly reformed; he no longer sought to interfere

in the plans of his niece, who was left to follow her own wishes.

Out of respect for her own feelings, and those of her uncle-whom

Florinda had now begun to respect, seeing a complete change in him

that showed an honest and honorable purpose-her proposed marriage

was deferred for some weeks, when at length, under the sanction of

the Grand Duke, Florinda and Carlton were united to each other, and

found happiness in the love and constancy of their own true hearts.

Thus happily ended the high thoughts and bright dreams of the humble

painter.

In one of the lovely palaces whose lofty walls of white bask in the

warm sun of the Val d'Arno, lives the last surviving branch of the

noble house of Carrati in the person of the peerless Signora

Florinda. Joyful and happy in domestic felicity, there, too, is

Carlton, the American artist, surrounded by everything that wealth

can procure, or refined taste suggest, and master of the unbounded

estates of Carrati, but above all, happy in Florinda's love.

THE END.

[FROM "THE FLAG OF OUR UNION."]

THE PRIMA DONNA.

BY M. V. ST. LEON.

"WHAT is to be done?" exclaimed the manager of the principal theatre

in Havana. "What is to be done?" and he paced the room in angry

despair. "This is the second time within a week that Signora

Buonatti has been too ill to sing-and to-night every seat is

engaged, the house will be full to overflowing. The audience scarce

endured the first disappointment, and how will they receive the

second? O, for some expedient. I must hunt the whole city through

till I find some one to supply her place decently!" and seizing his

hat, Diego Cartillos rushed into the street, and was out of sight in

a few minutes.

"Alfin brillar, nell i rede," sang a voice of surpassing sweetness,

which came from round a corner. Cartillos stopped an instant in

silent ecstacy, and then hurriedly advanced in the direction of the

sound. In front of a handsome house stood a young girl apparently

near sixteen years of age, in poor but clean garments, and holding a

mandoline in her hand with which she was playing an accompaniment to

the words she was singing. The manager stood listening to it

attentively, and as the rich, clear tones of the girl dwelt on the

lower notes, or rose with a birdlike gush to the higher ones, he

could scarce restrain some display of his delight. Such, however, it

was not his policy to exhibit, and when at the close of the song,

she timidly approached him, and, lifting her mandoline and large,

sad eyes at the same time, besought him in broken Spanish to give

her a single maravedi for pity's sake, he coldly drew forth a few

small coins and handed them to her.

"This is a poor way of earning your support,"' answered he.

"I know it-but it is all the one I have."

"It is a pity, for you seem to be an honest sort of a body, and

perhaps with the assistance of friends you might be made something

decent," then without noticing the indignant flush that had risen to

her check, he continued. "Now I am willing to help you-that is, if

you're respectable and humble-minded, and I will let you sing in my

theatre, although I am sure I shall lose by it."

The first impulse of the young girl was to refuse with anger, the

proposal offered almost in an insulting manner, by the hard,

avaricious man, but a moment's reflection showed her she could not

afford to be particular in choosing the manners of an employer, and

she replied:

"Why are you willing to take a stranger who has no claims upon you,

if you are certain you will be a loser by so doing?"

"Because, although I shall be at an extra expense for a while, I am

in hopes you will repay it sometime," he replied, with a scowl at

being questioned. "Come, what say you?"

"I am willing to better my condition, sir, and as for being humble

in my manners, few are otherwise who have their living to earn,"

replied the maiden, with a touch of haughtiness.

"Then come with me," said Cartillos, leading the way to the house he

had quitted a short time previous. When they were seated, the

manager commenced questioning his companion.

"It is rather a singular thing for a street musician to sing such

songs as you do, and in such a manner,"--then, after a pause, during

which she did not volunteer any information on the subject, he

renewed the attack, with, "You must have had some instruction. Who

was your teacher?"

"A countryman," was the reply.

Baffled in this direction, Cartillos commenced in a fresh quarter.

"You are an Italian, I suppose?"

"I am."

"Of what part are you a native?"

"Before I came to Havana, I resided in Naples."

The manager bit his lip at the small amount of information he

obtained, and commenced again.

"One of the troupe is ill, and I wish to obtain some one to supply

her place-but I suppose you are unacquainted with any opera?"

"I will engage to perfect myself in any one within a week."

"I cannot wait so long. To-night is the evening I most desire your

services," Cartillos replied, in despair.

"What is announced in the programme?"

"Lucia," was the gloomy response.

"If that is all, sir, I ask but seven hours practice and study. I am

familiar with it, but need instruction in the acting of it."

Her companion eagerly replied that he would engage her for that

night at least, and was departing to send some one to instruct her,

when she timidly inquired:

"But my dress, sir-how shall I arrange that matter?"

"O, I'll see to that! You prepare yourself in the part-I'll do the

rest," and he was gone in an instant.

Night came, and also a crowded house. Presently the people became

impatient, and with eagerness called for the commencement of the

performance; at the expiration of five minutes whistling, screaming,

stamping, etc., the manager made his appearance and announced "that

Signora Buanatti was unable to appear, but Signorina Zampieri had

kindly offered to take her place!" But the audience did not take it

kindly-the lady was unknown to them, and who could say anything

about her singing-besides, they had excused the favorite vocalist

once, and they were not to be put off in this same way again.

Accordingly, a tremendous hiss arose, in the midst of which the

unfortunate manager rattled off the physician's certificate, letting

his voice drop, and flat away towards the end most comically, then

hastily departed for the side scenes.

In a few minutes the young debutante appeared. She was received with

a chilling silence, broken only by a few faint claps from some half

dozen good-natured persons, in consideration of her youth and

beauty. In defiance of her prepossessing appearance, the audience

seemed determined that they would not be cheated or flattered into a

single expression of approbation, but the manager observed with

rising hope that they forbore to hiss. Undismayed, and regardless of

the reception she met with, the young girl, with perfect composure,

began her role. As she continued, the whole richness and beauty of

her voice were brought out, and wholly unable to withstand such

wonderful, unexpected melody, the people manifested their delight

loudly, and at the conclusion of the opera, Signorina Zampieri was

called for loudly. At the request of the manager, she came forward,

and with polite indifference bowed in reply to the applause. Signora

Buonatti was forgotten! The people were amazed at the nonchalant

manner of the young favorite, who actually received a burst of

enthusiasm, such as rarely had greeted any singer, with such

coolness-who and what was this slender, youthful being, that was

neither awed by their sternness, nor delighted at their praises?

The selfish, scheming Cartillos at once perceived he had made a

fortunate speculation, and hastened to engage his prize for a year

at one third her real value, as the next day proved when notes came

flocking in from all directions, urging her to name her own price.

With a feeling of deep indignation Teresa Zampieri determined after

her engagement with Cartillos expired, that he should never

acquire another farthing by her. She speedily became the pet of the

people, yet notwithstanding her surprising good fortune, nothing had

the power to charm her out of the subdued manner so unnatural in one

so young, or throw a lightsome sparkle into those large, dark,

melancholy eyes, while almost the first exclamation made by every

one on hearing her sing, was, "Her voice sounds like a fountain of

tears!" The only thing that absorbed and rendered her forgetful of

the present, was her music, and when in the opera, her whole being

seemed merged into the character she was representing. Her large,

sad eyes grew still larger and sadder, and she seemed like one in a

dream-it was with her a passion, an existence.

But she was subject to many annoyances from Cartillos, who

constantly took advantage of her ignorance concerning money matters,

which Florian Geraldi, the handsome tenor of the troupe, plainly

perceived and with burning indignation. He would have protected her

and prevented these impositions, but they were both young, and he

feared his motives might be misunderstood, and so he continued from

day to day, each showing him plainer that his heart was given to the

beautiful songstress, whose course had been so like a comet, rising

from darkness, and no one knew whither, for all felt instinctively

that a mystery hung over the young girl.-At last some fresh act of

injustice on the part of Cartillos thoroughly aroused Geraldi, who,

at the risk of losing his situation, determined to tell Teresa how

much she was imposed upon. The mournful tone and manner with which

she replied--"Alas, I am aware I have no friends to protect me,"

quite startled her companion out of his composure. He had resolved

never to speak of his affection till he had more reason for hope

than he then possessed, but at these words his resolution was

forgotten, and rapidly, earnestly, he detailed his past wishes and

present hopes, and urged her to reply. For an instant she was

silent, but then she addressed him in firm, sad, yet kind tones.

"This declaration is wholly unexpected to me, and while I cannot but

be flattered at the compliment-the highest a man can offer, I am

obliged to decline it. Your pity for me has perhaps misled you into

the belief that you love me, but you will soon forget one that can

never be yours."

Geraldi, who thought she might doubt he loved her sufficiently, was

about to assure her on that point, but he had scarcely commenced

speaking, ere she interrupted him.

"Even supposing I loved you as I ought to the man whose heart I take

into my keeping, there are obstacles-do not ask what-such being the

case, is it not best to conquer all but friendship in the

beginning?"

"Alas, it may be easy for you to counsel who do not endure, but this

is not the beginning of my love," murmured the Italian, in

despairing accents, as he left her.

The tone and mournful eyes made Teresa unhappy; she regretted deeply

the necessity of giving pain in this world, though she felt she

might unavoidably be the cause of more disappointments than even the

beautiful are generally, and with a sigh realized that in accordance

with her principles, she must draw yet more tightly the lines of

isolation about her. Life already had but few pleasures, and even

this scanty list must be curtailed. Geraldi, convinced that his

poverty and comparative obscurity were the objections to him,

determined they should not long remain a barrier, and immediately on

the expiration of his engagement with Cartillos, departed for his

native land, determined not to see Teresa Zampieri again till he had

won a name worthy her acceptance. He mentioned his plans to no one,

however, but bidding farewell to his friends departed on his errand.

Time flew by, and Teresa was released from her engagement. Cartillos

begged earnestly that she would continue with him, but the young

girl told him just her sentiments regarding his conduct, and much as

he regretted his past error, it did not help the matter in the

least. Engagements from far and near poured in upon her, and the

only difficulty was, which to choose.

"Somewhat of contrast!" thought Teresa. "One short year ago, I

scarce knew where to lay my head. Heigho! Methinks my present

station elevated as it may appear-but what! is this foolish heart

forever crying more?" and the tears so seldom permitted to visit

those sad, dreamy eyes, now came unchecked. Her sorrow once

indulged, returned more and more often; so to divert her mind,

Teresa Zampieri visited distant countries, always avoiding Italy,

however, and journeyed and sang without cessation. This constant

exertion was too much for her to bear, and she was obliged to omit

singing entirely for several months, during which time she travelled

through many delightful places, and frequently recalled those days

in after years, as some of the happiest she had known. At the

expiration of her wanderings she returned to Havana refreshed, and

comparatively happy, to commence a new engagement. This was the

third year of her theatrical life, and Teresa was now nearly twenty

years of age, and though so young, she possessed the manners of an

accomplished, experienced woman. It was a matter of wonder to all,

that amid such a throng of suitors as she was known to possess, she

yet remained Teresa Zampieri; but few dared request the guardianship

of the peerless girl, for it seemed as though between her and

themselves a vast gulf lay. And notwithstanding superior rank and

position, many a noble felt himself awed by the unaffected dignity

of the actress.

One evening as the breathless multitude were listening to the soft,

high note the songstress had already sustained for several measures,

as her eyes suddenly rested on a figure in a box near the stage, it

was interrupted by a wild, piercing shriek from the blanched lips of

Teresa, who instantly fell senseless. In a second all was confusion.

The orchestra stopped short in the middle of a note, the curtain was

speedily lowered, several ladies fainted, and the audience were in a

fever of excitement, each one talking to his neighbor.

"We must be careful of our treasure," said one, "or we shall lose

it."

"What is the matter?" eagerly asked another.

"That last note was held too long," suggested a third.

"A touch of the heart complaint I should think," etc.

When the manager announced that Signorini Zampieri requested the

indulgence of a few minutes before resuming her performance, there

was a general expostulation, so much had she endeared herself to

every heart. But the manager assured the audience that the lady

thanked them for their considerate kindness, but that she was

perfectly recovered, and preferred finishing the little that

remained of the opera. When she reappeared, the burning cheek and

glittering eye deceived many as to the suffering she endured. Her

gaze restlessly sought the figure that had caused her emotion, and

as she met the person's glance, a shudder passed over her. At first

her voice trembled with weakness, but meeting the mocking, sneering

triumph in that sarcastic face, the blood boiled in her veins, and

trembling with indignation, she startled the audience with the wild

burst of scorn she threw into the part she was representing. The

stranger at first turned pale with anger and surprise at the

surpassing delineation, but the next instant his eyes gleamed with

malicious satisfaction, which seemed to chafe the singer to madness.

At the conclusion of the opera, Teresa, with feverish impatience to

arrive at home, was hastily leaving the theatre, when she fancied

she saw in the front entrance doorway that Mephistophiles-like face,

and ordering the coachman to drive to her lodgings as speedily as

possible, threw herself back upon the cushions, and repressed a

strong inclination to take a certain individual's web of life out of

the hands of Fate. In a few minutes she arrived at the hotel, and

entering her parlor stood face to face with the stranger, who had

risen with the most easy coolness, and advanced to meet her.

"Mille pardons m'amie, for the intrusion, but I have not seen you so

long, that I was quite unable to resist the temptation of a call."

Teresa, overpowered with the most painful emotions, sank into a seat

and covered her face with her hands. With an expression of savage

pleasure, her tormentor approached quite near, and said:

"I beg, my charming friend, that you will not put yourself to the

fatigue and trouble of a sentimental reception, for I assure you it

will be entirely wasted."

These words roused the young girl from her stupor of agony, and

raising her form to its full height, she exclaimed:

"Brandini Villani, it would appear that the just avenging God hath

forgotten thee, miserable sinner, but it matters not; eternity,

methinks, will be long enough for thy punishment." Then with less

passion, but with regal, even awful dignity, she freezingly

inquired--"What have you to say?"

For an instant the wretch was intimidated, but noticing the tremor

of Teresa's whole frame, and mistaking it for fear, concealed

beneath affected scorn, he regained his assurance and tauntingly

replied:

"It is a trifling oversight, ma chere, to affect a callous

indifference towards me, when I have the charm with a single glance

to render you insensible, and to make you tremble at the mere sound

of my voice-no, no, Teresa, it will not do. While my presence

affects you thus, I know the power to fascinate has not yet deserted

me."

"Contemptuous wretch! With what feelings does the scaly, venomous

serpent inspire one when he approaches with slimy track and fetid

breath, with stealthy, coil and sickening glare? Think you would not

that fascinate with terror, cause a tremble of disgust, and produce

insensibility and delirium that such a loathsome reptile should

exist and breathe the same air? Yet having now called forth that

emotion in its deepest degree, you rejoice to have moved me! Truly

you have, and I can conceive your mind just fitted to appreciate the

honor!"

The worst passions of Villani were now thoroughly awake, and he

retorted with flashing eyes and a fierce tone, while his face even

to his lips, turned livid white.

"You may regret your liberal use of words when I unfold my errand. I

will trouble you for half your proceeds for the last year!"

With blazing eyes, from which sparks of fire actually seemed to

flash, and a form that appeared to dilate, Teresa turned full upon

Villani.

"How now, traitorous villain? Is not your list of perjuries, thefts,

deceptions and murders long enough, but you must add to it, ere you

are qualified to become the privy councillor to the arch fiend? Get

thee hence, grovelling worm, ere the lightnings of heaven blast

thee!"

At this instant the storm which had been gathering, burst with fury

over the city, and the dazzling sheet of flame was succeeded by a

deafening, rattling peal of thunder. Teresa sank on her knees beside

a lounge and buried her face in silent prayer; even Villani turned

pale and moved to the centre of the apartment, where he stood with

folded arms and compressed lips. Presently the violence of the

tempest abated, and the pallid Brandini approached Teresa, who had

not changed her position, and had forgotten in the storm almost the

existence of her persecutor, and in a low, dogged voice, said:

"I am waiting for your reply."

With a faint shriek Teresa raised her head.

"I thought you were gone-do you wish to tempt me further?"

"Will you give the money?"

"I will not!"

"Beware! Think again!"

"You have my answer. Never, while life remains, will I give another

reply!"

Villani bent over her and whispered a word; with a wild, agonized

shriek she sprang to her feet and gazed wildly into his face and in

feeble, broken accents, exclaimed:

"O no, no, not that-it would kill me, Villani, Villani! You are not

in earnest?"

"I most certainly am, madam, and I give you just five minutes to

decide which alternative you will choose," and he drew out his watch

and steadily gazed upon it. At the expiration of that time, Teresa,

with a pale, tearful face, knelt before him, and in faint,

despairing tones, murmured:

"I accept your terms! Villani's eyes lighted up with a fierce pride,

as he exclaimed:

"I thought to bring you to terms!"

"Tempt me not, Brandini Villani!" vehemently replied Teresa, rising

with flashing eyes; "you may rouse me yet beyond endurance-beware!"

and she pressed her hand to her heart, while an expression of pain

crossed her countenance. The extreme physical suffering so plainly

marked, seemed to move even the hard, unfeeling Villani, who, taking

her hand, said:

"I am afraid you are ill, ma belle," then as he gazed upon her

lovely form and face, half affectionately, half in defiance, he

suddenly exclaimed: "O Teresa, you're the handsomest woman I ever

saw. I could love you so, if you'd let me. Why can't we be friends,

Teresa? I know I did wrong, but why need we make an eternal quarrel

of the matter. Ah, my charming prize, why not transfer to me the

affection you are wasting upon one, who, perhaps ere this, is false

to you, and--"

"Silence! I have borne too long with you from weakness and inability

to speak, but depart now, or I recant my promise of submission."

"To hear is to obey-though the request might have been couched in

more polite terms," returned Villani, his former cold, sarcastic

manner returning with every word he uttered. "I may do myself the

pleasure to call again, my love-at present I wish you a good night

and pleasant dreams-of me!" and the door closed on his sardonic

smile.

"Alas," exclaimed Teresa, "he has a hold upon me I dare not attempt

to dispute."

The next morning as she was leaving the stage, after rehearsal, she

was met at the green room door by a familiar face, fine, manly and

handsome-yes, it was Geraldi! With a glad cry of surprise and

delight, Teresa sprang forward, and taking the outstretched hand of

the young man, said in her joyous, musical voice:

"Welcome, my dear friend! How you have improved-I have heard of the

laurels you have won!"

"And you too, Signorina Zampieri-you are paler and thinner than you

were when I last saw you. I know you have prospered as well as

myself, for Fame has not been idle with your name."

"Really signor, we are exquisitely polite and complimentary to each

other, but this is hardly the place for a lengthy conversation,"

said Teresa, laughing, and coloring somewhat, as she met the

slightly mischievous glances of the loungers who generally are to be

found in theatres--"if you are at liberty, why not step into the

carriage, and drive home with me?"

"I shall be most happy," replied Geraldi, with a radiant, delighted

smile, as he accompanied her to the vehicle.

For some time the presence and vivacity of Geraldi roused Teresa

from her serious, almost melancholy manners, and the wise ones

looked knowing, and said:--"They had always thought it would come to

something!"

At last Geraldi did what every one was expecting him to; for finding

Teresa alone one morning, he again offered himself with far better

hopes and prospects than he had three years ago. To his infinite

amazement, the color fled from Teresa's cheek, and covering her face

with her hands, she sank upon a lounge with a wild burst of grief.

Geraldi, quite at a loss to interpret the nature of this emotion,

surprised at its excess in one so generally self-possessed,

hesitated what course to pursue, but at length said, in a low tone:

"May I hope?"

"Hope!" repeated Teresa, in a bitter tone--"what have I or any

connection with me to do with that word. O Mary mother, help me-help

me!" she wailed in a fresh agony as her whole frame trembled with

emotion.

Geraldi knew not what to say; with any other person he would have

endeavored to soothe and discover the cause of this grief, but the

agitation of Teresa was so fearful, and in her so unnatural, that he

dared not question; he therefore did the next best thing, which was

to keep silent. In a few minutes the storm had exhausted itself, and

with sternly composed features she rose and addressed Geraldi.

"Forget this! It is seldom my feelings obtain such mastery over me,

but my dark fate occurred so vividly to my mind, that it quite

overpowered me."

"Why not renounce it then? I would strive so earnestly to make a

brighter one for you."

After a moment's hesitation, she seemed to conquer some inward

strife, and said, in a low voice:

"I had thought never to have told it to any human being, but you are

entitled to an explanation, and you are too honorable to expose

me-Florian," here her face was averted--"Florian, I love another!"

For an instant Geraldi remained without motion, then darting forward

he seized her hand, imprinted one despairing kiss upon it, and

without a word, was gone.

Teresa wrung her hands and exclaimed--"Villani, Villani! Could you

know what I suffer, even your hard heart would pity me!"

The afternoon dragged heavily along, and evening was approaching,

when a knock at the door aroused Teresa from a restless reverie.

Bidding the person enter, she beheld Villani, who seated himself by

her side, and informed her that he had something to propose which

might please her. Teresa wondering what it could be, begged him to

proceed.

"I sincerely repent the compact I obliged you to make, and now wish

to destroy it."

Teresa looked at him in undisguised astonishment. "I do not think I

understand you-is it your wish that I should enjoy the whole of the

proceeds of my singing?"

"You have said it."

"And what concession am I to make in return?" she inquired, as

though suspicious some greater enormity than he had yet been guilty

of, was intended.

"What return? O Teresa, cannot you comprehend and believe, that I

expect and desire none?"

"I know not how I should, since your whole conduct has hardly been

such as to impress me very profoundly with the idea that generosity

is a prominent characteristic of Signor Villani's!"

"Say no more-let us be friends, Teresa. I will do all I can for you,

and do not utter reproaches for what is a misfortune to me, although

it were a glory to any other."

His companion scarce credited her senses. Was it possible that

Villani, her tormentor and cruel persecutor, indeed wished her well

and desired to become her friend? It seemed strange, yet his manner

was more like truth than she had ever seen it before, and she felt

she had perhaps wronged him, that beneath all, a heart, human and

accessible to some generous emotion, yet beat, and her own noble,

ingenuous nature, ever ready to accuse itself and offer atonement,

impelled her to extend both hands to Villani and reply:

"Pardon me, I have wronged you-it is indeed worse than foolish to

cherish animosity toward each other, and henceforth let us not

forget we are of one great family, equally cared for by our heavenly

Father!"

Villani took Teresa's hands, and kissing them, thanked her so warmly

and earnestly that she could not doubt his sincerity, and though she

was aware love was impossible, she hoped to respect him more than

she had done. Villani on his part, had acquired enough by Teresa to

afford this seeming generosity, and his sole object was to win her

love; he was well aware if his motive was known to her, she would

not have accepted this proffered friendship, and he rejoiced that

his past conduct had been such as to forbid the supposition that he

sought anything more. Presently there came a pause in the

conversation, and Villani, after gazing intently upon his companion,

observed:

"How much you have altered since I first saw you, Teresa. I suppose

it is partly owing to your natural progress from childhood to

womanhood-why, you must be nineteen?"

"Just twenty."

"Perhaps you are even handsomer than you were four years ago,

although I see you have called in the aid of foreign ornament-it was

the wisest course, however."

The rich color which suddenly dyed Teresa's cheeks, most certainly

was not the gift of art, yet she assented to Villani's words.

"Not but what I think your beauty sufficient to challenge

improvement-indeed, I prefer you as you used to be-but you are

lovely enough to cause heart aches as it is."

After some further conversation, Villani, saying it was time for

Teresa to prepare for the opera, left her. No sooner did the door

close, than loosening the rich masses of jetty hair which formed a

veil around her and descended far below her waist, Teresa advanced

to a large mirror, and without a shadow of vanity or a smile, gazed

steadily at her reflection. Never had a glass shown a fairer face or

form to the gazer.

The image that met Teresa's glance was majestic, with a regal

expression of countenance. A broad, but not too high brow, eyes dark

as a raven's wing-no, they are only deep, golden brown, yet the long

lashes and eyebrows of jet, together with the ever dilating pupil,

give the impression that they are darker, a complexion of sunny

olive, and locks which are certainly the hue of night; a form richly

moulded and of perfect symmetry, from the exquisite head to the

slippered foot, stood before her. Surely it was not a vision from

which my lady had cause to turn in vexation, yet with an expression

of scorn, and a bright flush apparently of shame, mounting to her

cheek, she impatiently moved away, and commenced braiding up the

rich tresses. Throwing a mantle on her shoulders, she descended to

the carriage and was soon at the opera house.

During the evening, in the midst of the performance, Teresa's eye

lit for the first time on the nearest stage box. A mist overspread

her eyes, her breath came hot and thick, a dizzy sense of

overpowering fulness stole upon her, and when the time came for her

response, she had hardly the strength to perform her part; yet she

acquitted herself so well, that her emotion was unnoticed. The

person who caused this wild tumult in Teresa's frame, was a stately,

handsome man, evidently of high birth, and apparently forty-five

years of age, although the raven curls around the high, majestic

brow were untouched by time. The slightly aquiline features, and

dark, flashing eyes, revealed the haughty spirit within, which was

softened, however, by the look of sorrow around the mouth, and the

general expression of a settled grief. He was dressed in black,

relieved by a brilliant and splendid order on the left breast, and

unaccompanied, save by a servant in white and gold livery.

The nobleman, for such his appearance declared him, was evidently a

stranger in the city, for every glass was levelled at him, but he

seemed quite unconscious, and wholly indifferent. At the conclusion

of the opera, roused from his languor by the thrilling manner in

which Teresa rendered the last aria, the now animated listener rose

and gracefully threw a garland of white lilies with such admirable

precision, that they encircled the beautiful head of Teresa; upon

which the audience, delighted at the compliment paid in so marked a

manner, no less to the well known purity, than the wonderful voice

of their favorite, made the theatre ring with their applause.

As soon as possible, Teresa arrived at her own apartments, and

throwing herself on her knees, buried her face in the cushions of a

lounge, while faint murmurs and sobs alone broke the stillness.

Nearly a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when the opening of the

door roused her, and starting up, she beheld Villani about to enter.

Hastily motioning him not to advance, she wildly said:

"Forbear! Do not cross that threshold tonight! Villani, I have seen

him this very evening--he sat so near I might almost have touched

him-so near, and yet not a thought that I was more to him than any

other of that crowd! Bear with me for this night-I must be alone."

"It shall be as you wish--I will speak of what brought me here some

other time, perhaps to-morrow."

"To-morrow let it be then."

Presently Teresa became calmer, yet through the remainder of the

night she sat by the open casement without motion or apparent life,

thinking over bitter memories without a gleam of hope to illumine

the future.

After Teresa's first agitation had subsided, the stranger's presence

seemed to exert a most powerful and calming influence upon her mind.

He was seldom absent at her performances, and it seemed to give her

an increase of strength as well as happiness; she always received

some token of his delight, and many said the Duke di Castiglioni-so

he was called-had a very superior taste, and wondered what would

come of it. Villani had exacted a promise from Teresa, that she

would not permit an introduction to him, and shortly after left the

city for a few weeks.

Teresa felt relieved by his absence, although they were no longer

enemies, and her mode of life was unchanged. Nearly a fortnight had

elapsed, when another incident occurred that changed the whole

future of her life. One evening Teresa eagerly sought the familiar

face of the foreign nobleman, but in vain, and a disappointed look

replaced the smile; but presently he entered the accustomed place,

followed by a young man of aristocratic bearing, but no likeness

bespoke them to be father and son. Teresa turned pale as marble, but

a tear started to her eye as she observed the complete friendship

and affection that evidently existed between them, and a thrill of

anguish shot through her heart, as she murmured, while her eyes met

the young stranger's gaze--"So near-yet so distant!" Several times in

the course of the evening she fancied a look of recognition passed

over his face, and once, when he touched his companion's arm, her

heart leaped to her mouth, but in an instant, perceiving they both

glanced at some one on the opposite side of the house, she smiled

bitterly, and thought--"How should they know me, in this place, and

so altered!"

Late that night when the city was wrapped in slumber, a lamp burned

brightly in Teresa's chamber, and a figure paced wildly up and down

with clasped hands and floating hair. At last the restless girl

stopped and exclaimed:

"If I am wrong, Heaven help me-but this agony is killing me! If I

sin, I am sinned against, and God judge between us, Villani!"

Then hurriedly, as though fearful her resolution would falter,

Teresa drew her writing-desk towards her, and wrote a note so

rapidly, and with so unsteady a hand, that there was little

resemblance to her usual writing, and then sought for sleep-but in

vain-and at the earliest possible hour she despatched a messenger

with the note.

Just as the hour of eleven chimed, the door of the room where Teresa

sat, was opened, and a servant, announcing Signor Da Vinci, ushered

in the young stranger of the preceding night. He advanced with a

puzzled, inquiring expression, and with a slightly apologetic bow,

said:

"I came in accordance with a request expressed in a note from

Signorina Zampieri."

"I presume you were somewhat surprised, signor, but my motive must

be my excuse. I have a friend in whom you were greatly interested,

and who wishes you to be made acquainted with the solution of the

mystery which separated her from you."

The gentleman had hitherto been only attentive, but at these last

words, an expression of eager inquiry pervaded every feature. Teresa

continued:

"This lady, five years ago, was betrothed to Leonarde Da Vinci."

"Myself!"

"I am aware of that fact, but permit me to continue without

interruption. Well knowing her father would never consent to her

marriage, a plan of elopement was arranged. On the appointed night,

the lady, according to agreement, stole to the palace steps, and

seeing in the deep shadow a gondola which drew up as she approached,

doubted not that the occupant was her lover. She was received, to

her belief, in his arms, the light was burning but dimly, and for

greater security her companion, who was masked, proposed in a

whisper that she should cover her face also. She was nearly beside

herself with agitation, and when the gondola drew up at a little

chapel standing nearly by itself, she unhesitatingly accompanied

him, and knelt beside the altar where stood a priest and attendants.

"So absorbed with the various and conflicting emotions in her heart,

she uttered the responses mechanically, and when she rose, the

chapel was deserted, save by her husband and herself. Turning to

him, what was her horror at seeing not Leonarde Da Vinci, as she had

supposed, but Villani Brandini, a rejected suitor, and seeming

friend to Da Vinci, who had discovered the plan of escape by some

means, and revenged himself upon the lady in this manner. In spite

of her resistance, she was carried to Brandini's palace, from whence

in three days she escaped; and fearing her father would never grant

his forgiveness, knowing she was forever separated from the one to

whom her heart was given, she managed by the sale of several

valuable jewels which she had upon her person at the time of her

flight, to procure a passage to Naples, where she hoped to turn her

numerous accomplishments to advantage.

"Shortly after her arrival in that place, an American family, who

were in need of a governess for two little girls, met with her. Her

appearance spoke so strongly in her favor, that notwithstanding the

absence of credentials, they engaged her, and in a little while

sailed for America. When near the place of their destination, a

violent storm arose, and they were shipwrecked. The young girl was

lashed to a spar, and the last thing she remembered was, being

washed overboard by a mountain wave. She was picked up by a merchant

vessel bound for Havana. There she arrived in a state of utter

destitution, and she who was once the companion of princesses, was

obliged to sing in the street for a living, and now--"

"Viola-my long sought love-where, where is she?"

"She stands before you!" said a thrilling voice, while Teresa, now

divested of her disguise, stood with clasped hands, eagerly gazing

at Da Vinci, her long, bright golden curls enveloping her as with a

veil. In an instant Da Vinci, recovering from his overwhelming

surprise, had folded her to his heart. Viola, as we must now call

her, after an instant's silence, disengaged herself, saying;

"We must not forget that we can never be more than friends,

Leonarde."

"Never more than friends, Viola! Why do you not know that you are

free?"

"Free! What is it you mean?"

"Is it possible you still believe yourself Brandini's wife?"

"Believe myself! Am I not?"

"No, my own dearest Viola! It was no priest who performed that

ceremony. Two years since, a dying man confessed that for a large

sum he had assumed the character of a minister of God, and performed

a mock marriage between Brandini and yourself. Your father and I

have been seeking you ever since your flight, and at last our

dearest wish is granted."

"You are sure he will forgive me?"

"Forgive you! He has sought for you with the blessed hope of

clasping you once more in his arms before he died-for years, O

Viola, we have all suffered deeply."

"We have, indeed, but now--" a shudder passed over her as she clung

closer to Da Vinci, on hearing a quick footstep in the hall. Another

moment and Brandini was face to face with Leonarde. We leave the

scene that followed to the reader's imagination; the torrent of rage

which Villani poured forth, together with the fatigue she had lately

undergone, caused Teresa to faint in Da Vinci's arms, when Brandini,

finding his villany was discovered, made a hasty retreat. A message

was despatched for the Duke di Castiglioni, and in an hour Viola was

in his arms, and receiving his fall and free pardon.

A week afterward the now united family were leaving Havana, the

scene of so much grief and joy. Teresa stood on the steamer's deck,

with her husband gazing at the city, when the pilot came on board.

"Quite an affair came off last night," he said to the captain; "an

Italian gentleman, Signor Brandini, who ran through a splendid

property in his own country and was a spendthrift here was found

dead-blew out his brains-it was supposed to be some love affair that

caused it."

Teresa's cheek turned very pale, as she hid her face on Da Vinci's

shoulder, who whispered:

"So ends the last scene in the dark drama of thy past. Look up, my

Viola! The clouds are passed, and sunshine is over all."

[FROM "THE FLAG OF OUR UNION."]

THE ARTIST OF FLORENCE.

BY JAMES DE MILLE.

IT was evening in Val d'Arno. The sun was sinking behind the horizon

and twilight was descending upon the glorious vale. There lay the

garden of Italy enclosed by mountains on either side, green and

glowing in its verdant and luxuriant fertility, shaded by its groves

of olive and cypress, with long avenues of stately trees. Flocks and

herds grazed in the fields, vineyards flourished on the mountain

declivities, and in the distance arose the summits of the wooded

Apennines. The classic Arno flowed through the valley, bestowing

gladness and plenty on every side, its waters rolling on in slow and

most melodious motion. On every side, on the plain, on the sides and

summits of the hills, everywhere appeared the white villas of the

nobles, now hidden by the thick foliage of surrounding trees, and

encircled by gardens where bloomed the most gorgeous and odoriferous

flowers, now standing alone and lifting up their stately marble

fronts surrounded by magnificent colonnades. In the midst of this

lovely place, a queen over all around, lay Florence, the dearest and

most charming city of the south-Florence, whose past glows with the

brilliancy of splendid achievements in arms, arts and song, whose

present state captivates the soul of every traveller, and binds

around him a potent spell, making him linger long in dreamy pleasure

by the gentle flow of the Arno's waters.

"Here," exclaimed Byron, in a rapture, as he looked down from a

neighboring mountain upon this earthly paradise--"here--

"'--the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps

A softer feeling for her fairy halls.

Girt by her theatre of bills she reaps

Her corn and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps

To laughing life from her redundant horn"'

Twilight came on, and soon the moon arose, throwing a gentle glow

upon the scene, and shedding around it a more bewitching influence.

It was an evening fitted for pleasing meditation, such meditation as

the poet loves, and for the interview of lovers. The gardens of

Boboli never appeared more beautiful than now, for the solemn shadow

of the groves was relieved by the soft illumination of the broad

paths; the sheets of water glistened in the quiet moonbeams, and

every statue and every sculptured form was invested with a new and

indescribable beauty. Upon the summit of a hill within these

gardens, sat a youth and maiden engaged in most earnest

conversation. The maiden was exceedingly beautiful, with a face

which reminded one of the Madonna of Murillo, so gentle, so tender,

and so bewitchingly lovely. The youth sat at her feet upon the green

turf, and with his head turned back, gazing upon her, there was

disclosed a noble and most handsome countenance. His long hair,

black as night, fell from his forehead, and his eyes burnt like

stars in the paleness of his face. There was an expression of genius

stamped upon his lofty forehead, but there were care and anxiety in

its frown. The stately form of the Palazzo Pitti was near at hand,

and in the distance lay the city, with the stupendous dome of the

cathedral, and the lofty form of the beautiful Campanile.

"Stella," he said, in deeply musical tones--"Stella, you know all my

love and the desires of my soul. All are fixed upon you. Fame and

glory I only wish for as the means of obtaining you. But O, hard is

the task and difficult is it for an unknown artist to gain the hand

of the proud Count Borelloni's daughter. I would not grieve you by

taking you without his consent, even if I were able."

"Bless you! God bless you, my noble Mario for those noble words! Do

not seek to draw me from him. Willingly would I give up all-wealth,

and power and all-to live in obscurity with you. But my father loves

me so fondly, that if I were to leave him, he would die. Let us

wait, and perhaps he may overcome his prejudice toward you."

"He dislikes me because I am poor and unknown. But," exclaimed

Mario, with a haughty glance, "the time may come and will come, when

he will not he ashamed to acknowledge me. Art can ennoble the poor

and obscure."

"I know you will become great, Mario. I know that your name will be

spoken with honor, and that before long. When I first saw you here

in Florence, when I afterwards heard you tell me your love as we

walked by the waters of Lake Perugia, I knew that you would become

famous."

"And then, if I ever gain fame and honor, all shall be laid at your

feet, Stella."

"You can wait then, and seek for fame, Mario, to give you acceptance

in my father's eyes. You can wait, for you know my constancy."

"I know it, and I would trust it always. I know your noble soul,

Stella, its lofty qualities lead me captive, and I worship you as a

divinity."

The impassioned youth bent down before her, but she prevented him,

and suddenly asked:

"How do you proceed with your painting?"

"Well, I am proceeding well, for I am inspired by the thoughts of

Stella."

"Then I inspire you, do I?"

"O Stella, you fill my soul with new conceptions of angelic beauty,

and while your image dwells in my mind, I look back upon it and

place every feature, every expression living upon the canvass! If

this picture is completed, your father's love for art will make him

respect the creator of this new piece."

"And he will honor you and love you."

"It must be completed in two or three months now. I seek new ideas

of loveliness from you, Stella, and then my picture receives them."

"And suppose you fail, Mario." said Stella.

"Fail? O I cannot. But if I do, then will I despair? No, I will go

to Rome and devote myself entirely to art. But it is late, Stella.

We must go, and I will see you home before your father returns."

And the gardens of Boboli were empty.

What city is so delightful as Florence on the afternoon of a lovely

day in early spring, when the sun glows above from an unclouded sky,

and the Arno flows on through the midst of the city, amid its

magnificent palaces, beneath its lovely bridges. Then beauty reigns

everywhere. The Lung' Arno, the Casino, the Via Calziolajo are

thronged with carriages, with horsemen and footmen, with offices and

soldiers, men, women and children. Beautiful flower girls carry

around their bouquets and bestow them on the stranger, expecting but

never asking some little doucer in return. The gloomy palaces of the

middle ages, the magnificent churches of early times, towers and

colonnades, statues and fountains, arrest the eye and charm the

beholder. All is joyousness and beauty.

Among the throngs of carriages which rode along the Lung' Arno and

down to the Casino, none was more noticed than that of the Count

Borelloni. It was a splendid equipage drawn by two fiery horses, to

guide which the utmost skill of the coachman was needed. The old

count was of a remarkable appearance. His countenance was noble and

his air commanding. He was noted through Florence for his wealth and

taste. Artists of every kind found in him a patron. It was at his

palace that Mario Fostello had first attracted attention by his

genius and the beauty his pictures. He had seen Stella, had loved

her, and had spoken to the old count, telling him that he would seek

after fame if he would bestow his daughter upon him. But the

indignation and pride of Borelloni rose high, and he contemptuously

ordered Mario to withdraw and never again to enter his house.

There was one feeling in the heart of the old count which far

exceeded every other, and that was an intense love for his daughter.

Beautiful, high-souled and accomplished, she was worthy of the

highest station in the land, and such a station he desired for her.

They now rode in their carriage-father and daughter; an aged oak and

a young and tender vine, one supported the other, which gave it

beauty and attractiveness.

Stella attracted the gaze of all by her exquisite beauty, but there

was one whom she saw walking swiftly past, the sight of whom sent a

thrill through every vein-for well she knew the tall and stately

figure of Mario.

"Stella," said her father, "there goes the ambitious painter-that is

the man who had the unspeakable presumption to ask your hand of me.

He, a paltry artist. See him as he walks along there."

Stella's blood rushed to her face, and her frame trembled with

agitation. She turned away her head to hide her confusion.

"Look, do you see him?" said her father.

"Who?" said she.

"Why, Mario, the artist, but he is out of sight. What is the matter,

Stella? Tell me my child, are you ill? Why are you so pale? You

change color. You are sick, my daughter. We must go home."

"O no, father. Do not go home. It was but a passing faintness, I

will soon get ever it."

"You are very pale, my child."

"It is nothing, father. But look-what is the matter with the

horses?"

The horses seemed fretful and impatient. They reared and kicked,

they were unruly and troublesome. The coachman looked pale and

anxious.

"The horses? Nothing!" said her father. "They are quiet enough. I

like to have a little spirit in my animals."

Many of the passengers in the streets looked with alarm upon the

animals whom the count dreaded so little.

"Good day, Borelloni," exclaimed a gentleman on horseback; "a most

beautiful day!"

"Your servant, signor," answered the count. "It is a lovely day."

"Your horses seem vicious, they are very unruly, are they not!" said

the gentleman.

"O no-they are a little excited-they will presently become calm. A

very great number of people are out to-day."

"Yes, a large number," replied the gentleman, looking somewhat

anxiously at the horses.

After a few moments he rode away.

"Your excellency?" said the coachman to the count.

"Well?" he replied.

"Your excellency's horses are unmanageable, or will be so soon. They

are not used to these crowded streets."

"If they do not become so soon, they never will be," said Borelloni.

The horses began to plunge, and rear, and snort more violently, so

much so, that all the people were terrified and got out of the way.

The coachman seemed unable to control them.

Mario was in the Casino, walking beneath the shadow of the trees.

The cool breeze from the mountains fanned his fevered brow, as he

walked hurriedly along.

"I am poor. I am an artist, unknown, uncared for but by one, and

that one is the noblest of her sex. I live only to gain her. When my

picture is finished, I shall be no longer obscure. When my fame

exceeds that of the haughty count, I may well demand his daughter."

Such were the thoughts that passed through his mind as he walked on.

"I heard his words," he proceeded. "I heard his contemptuous words

as I passed the carriage, and know the scorn which he feels for me.

But Count Borelloni," he exclaimed, raising his hand, "I will make

you know that birth alone does not constitute greatness. I will make

you know that a lofty soul can struggle upwards."

Suddenly, far away from the Lung' Arno, sounded a loud reverberation

of many voices, an immense outcry mingled with the deep rumbling of

carriage wheels, and the fierce neighing of horses. There were

sounds like the rush of a great multitude, and cries of terror

mingled with one another in appalling confusion.

Mario started, and turned back. Casting his eye toward the city, he

saw far away in places where the trees did not intercept his view,

numbers of men rushing to and fro.

He stood alone in the utmost perplexity, for no one was near to tell

him the cause of that great uproar.

The clamor and rumbling of wheels came nearer and nearer, rattling

over pavements, dashing against obstacles. It came nearer, and soon

he saw a carriage dragged on with terrific speed by two furious

horses, who, without driver or postilion, came on unrestrained. The

carriage was knocked against trees and dashed violently against

stones. In it there was an old man leaning back with a pale face,

expressing intense agony, and close to him, clung the form of a

young girl-her arms wound round him, and her dishevelled hair

floating in the breeze.

"O God! Stella!" exclaimed Mario, in unspeakable horror. "Stella!-my

God, she's lost!"

With one bound he rushed in the midst of the course taken by the

infuriated horses. His cloak fell from him, his hair flew about his

pale and fixed countenance, and like a rock in the centre of a

torrent, he stood in the way of the horses!

He waved his hands wildly-he shouted to the steeds. On they came,

lessening for a moment their speed-there was a bound forward. Mario

clung at the reins with the grasp of a drowning man-there was a

whirl of dust, a rush of the multitude who followed after, and then

with a sound like the sudden peal of thunder, burst forth the

acclamation of a thousand deep-toned voices:

"Saved, saved!"

They raised Mario up-they placed him in the carriage, and bore his

insensible and much bruised form slowly to the palace of Borelloni.

All Florence rung with the tidings of the deed--the name of Mario

was spoken everywhere, and the city honored the performer of so bold

an action.

"Now what will Borelloni do to reward the gallant preserver of his

own life and his beloved daughter!"

"He will give him a thousand piastres," said one.

"He will enrich him for life," said another.

"He will do no such thing," said a third. "Mario is no mercenary

man. He despises rewards of that kind. I will tell you. He loves the

count's daughter."

"Ah," said all.

"And he deserves her. But for him she would not have lived to have

his love, nor would Borelloni have been living to refuse."

"Does he refuse?" said they.

"Mario said nothing to the count. It is an old story. He has loved

her long. But the count, who refused him once before, will not now

retract his word, even to the preserver of his life."

Mario was cared for and soon recovered. He spake not a word about

his love to Borelloni. He would not ask him now, for then he would

seem to demand payment for his action, and such a thing he

scorned-even though it should bestow upon him the hand of his

beloved.

"I will wait," said he. "I will raise myself to an equality with

her, and then Borelloni shall not refuse."

It was summer, and the sun glanced brightly, gloriously, over the

silver waters of Thrasymene's lake, for such we love to call the

lake which the Italians name Perugia. The wind blew softly over the

plain, and the rich groves all covered with luxuriant foliage shaded

the quiet fields beneath, which more than two thousand years before

had resounded with the roar of battle. The hills encircled the plain

on three sides, protecting it in winter from the cold blast and

causing it to bloom with perennial verdure. The lake rippled on the

shore of the other side, and stretched away-a sheet of molten

silver, till it watered the bases of distant hills.

In this charming spot which every traveller loves to view, had the

Count Borelloni reared a summer palace. It lay on the southern shore

of the lake, half way up the mountains, and in from its roof a scene

like one in fairy land burst upon the view, The cool winds which

blew here were an alleviation to the heat of summer and Florence,

with its noise and dust, was gladly exchanged for the quiet scenes

of this enchanting spot.

There was a boat upon the lake, and the enjoyment of sailing formed

a chief attraction to visitors, for Borelloni's villa was always

open to his friends. Yet at times there was danger attending this

pleasure, for tempests would arise and the waters would be converted

into furious waves.

"How beautiful is this lovely place?" said the count to his

daughter, as they walked upon the terrace! "What a scene is this for

a painter. See where the sun is setting over yonder-those clouds

tinged with myriad tints surrounding him in glory! See above us, how

intensely blue the sky, how clear the atmosphere! Look at the

opposite shore-how green, how glowing in fruits and flowers-all

again appearing down in the depths of this unruffled lake! O Italy,

my country, how beautiful thou art!"

"And father, look at these heights around us, and on the western

shore-these bold rocks with their summits all covered with spreading

trees. How grandly they set off the picture!"

"If I were a painter, I know no scene that I would choose to

portray, rather than this."

"Since you respect and love art so highly, father, why did you not

learn this?"

"I was too busy in my youth, Stella."

"Who of all you know is best in this art?"

"I know a great many excellent ones-many who excel in landscape

painting-many who are good in historic pictures, but of all whom I

know, the one is undoubtedly the greatest, the one who excels all

others in mingled grandeur and loveliness of conception, and who

approaches nearest to the grand old masters is he-the artist who

saved us from death--Mario."

"Mario!"

"Yes, and if he had not been guilty of such great presumption, my

palace and my esteem would have been thrown open to him

always-first, because he is chief of artists, and especially because

he saved my darling's life."

"Yet is he so presumptuous, my father?"

"My daughter! Stella Borelloni, can an obscure man aspire to the

hand of the fairest in Tuscany?"

"He may not always be obscure."

"Why do you speak thus to me, Stella? Can it be possible that

you-But no, it is not. I will not think of it nor speak of it."

And shortly afterwards they went within. Stella retired to her

chamber, and thought of her father's words. They gave her hope. He

no longer despised Mario. He could not. But he was angry at his

presumption. Obscurity was Mario's greatest fault in his eyes.

"I will take courage," she thought. "Hope comes to me. Mario's

greatness of genius has been confessed by my father. It will soon be

confessed by the world."

Meantime, Mario had become wearied of the heat of Florence. He

longed for quiet and seclusion. He wished to spend the sultry summer

months in some cooler and more agreeable retreat.

"By the lake of Perugia," thought he--"Stella lives. If I go there I

can see her as she walks or rides around. I can feast my eyes upon

her, although I am resolved to remain unseen myself. I will take my

picture there, and receive that inspiration which her angelic beauty

always gives me."

He came to the lake and dwelt in a small house upon its banks,

scarce half a mile away. Daily he would go to the top of a cliff

near by, and when Stella walked out his eyes followed her, and she,

always thinking of him, knew not that he was so near.

When she departed to ride along the borders of the lake, or for a

sail upon its waters, he watched her, and sometimes encountered her

dressed in disguise.

For two weeks he remained there, and kept his resolution of never

making known his presence. But soon an occurrence took place which

caused him to be discovered, yet in such a way that he rejoiced at

the discovery.

It was a sultry morning, and desirous of coolness, Stella with a few

other friends resolved to take a sail upon the lake. There was a

threatening aspect about the horizon, but it was unnoticed by those

who were intent on pleasure. Borelloni remained at home, being

employed at some business.

Mario sat at his usual place on the summit of the rock, and watching

the preparations, knew their object. An awning was placed above the

boat-a high and broad awning, which could effectually keep off the

hot rays of the sun.

Mario looked with anxiety upon the preparations, for he knew the

signs of the weather, and feared the appearance of the sky. All was

calm, oppressively calm, and fearful to one who knew how suddenly

storms arise under such circumstances. He would have warned them,

but he did not dare to, for fear of discovering himself. So he was

compelled to sit in a state of inaction and watch with feverish

anxiety the approaching excursion.

The party left the house, they were four in number, and the heart of

Mario throbbed violently as he recognized the form and features of

Stella among them. They went gaily to the boat which was now

completely ready, and soon were seated beneath the awning. As there

was no wind, sails were useless, so they were rowed out into the

lake.

Two or three hours passed away, and still Mario sat gazing upon the

boat which was carelessly lying still in the middle of the lake.

Mario watched them with anxiety, and occasionally cast a troubled

glance at the sky. He would have made signals, but they were too far

away to notice them.

The sky became darker, and there came a peculiar thickness and

oppressiveness to the atmosphere. Still the boat moved not.

"Can they be asleep? Can the rowers be insane?" thought Mario. "The

sky is clouded, and they do not notice it. O heaven, what can they

do! They cannot see the sky for the awning hides it."

His attention was now attracted by a sudden voice from Borelloni's

villa. The old count appeared upon the terrace, pale and terrified,

and waved his arms in the air, and screamed to those in the boat.

The shout went across the water, followed immediately by the tolling

of the great bell at the villa, which was now all in confusion.

Borelloni rushed about like one distracted, sending his servants

after boats to go out and save his daughter.

"My daughter, my daughter," he cried, "my beautiful Stella. O my

daughter!"

And with frantic gestures he rushed down to the water's edge, and

shouted to the boat-at times gazing at the angry sky above.

Those in the boat had heard his voice and seen the confusion at the

villa. Instantly the rowers put out their oars and turned the boat's

head toward the shore. They rowed fast, for hope was trembling and

preparing to take her flight from the souls of the endangered

boatmen.

The deep tones of the bell, sounding loudly and fearfully, went over

the country, arousing multitudes of men, who left their fields and

came to see the cause of such unwonted noise.

Mario sat on the rock till the boat turned toward the shore. Then

viewing the dark sky and the occasional flash of lightning, he

descended with fear to the shore of the lake. A half hour passed,

and but three miles had been passed over. One yet separated the boat

from the shore. One mile-a short period of time would suffice for

the passage, yet in that short time what might not happen!

But soon all suspense was over. There gleamed a sudden flash of

lightning over the whole sky, intensely, terrifically bright,

followed by torrents of rain. There was a short pause, and then with

a crash-a roar that sounded like the wild rage of an earthquake,

burst the awful peal of thunder-then peal on peal, roar on roar,

rolled in long reverberations along the sky, round the rocky shores,

and the heavens grew more intensely black! The storm had burst upon

them! Down came the blast of the tempest's breath, in an

overwhelming torrent of wind, and the whole surface of the lake rose

in wild surges, foaming and tossing.

When the first horrible confusion had passed away, all eyes were

strained to where the boat had been. It was nowhere to be seen. Amid

the gloom a few dark objects were all that could be descried in the

foam of the upheaving billows. There came a scream from that aged

man who had watched the boat so intently-a despairing cry, and with

his white hair streaming behind him, he dashed forward to throw

himself into the water. The servants seized him and prevented him.

"My daughter!" cried the old man. "O my daughter, she has perished!

Let me go to her!"

"Look!" exclaimed a voice, pointing to the water. "I see a dark form

amid the foam. I see it-it is a man, and he swims, bearing something

with him."

All eyes turned there. The baron revived, and again looked hopefully

at the water, where the brave swimmer so gallantly breasted the

waves.

But could it be his daughter?

They came nearer-nearer, and now the face was seen, and the hair, as

it fell and rose above the water. It was-it must be-yes, that long,

dark hair and those lovely features belonged only to Stella!

The old man bowed down his head and wept.

Nearer, nearer, and now all fear was gone, for the bold swimmer

still showed an unfailing strength and energy. But his face was

unknown. None had seen it before. Yet Borelloni knew it-well he knew

it. The same face had appeared amid the death struggle, the dust and

wild prancing of maddened horses on the Casino.

And now Mario touched the land. And now he bore his senseless burden

through the crowd to her father's arms.

"O take her Mario, to the house-carry her there, or else she dies."

But Mario laid her down at her father's feet, upon the grass, and

voicelessly, nervelessly fell down beside her.

They carried them both to the villa. They cared for them, and soon

Mario opened his eyes and asked eagerly for Stella.

"She is saved, and well. She is with her father."

"Saved? then I am happy."

He arose, and all dripping as he was, left the house, in spite of

the eagerness of the attendants.

"No," he said, "my home is near by, and why should I remain here? I

will go. Leave me."

And he arose and left the house.

"Where is the saviour of my child?" said Borelloni, on the following

morning.

"Gone?" said his attendants.

"Gone? Fools! Why did you send him away thus?"

"He would not stay, your excellency. He said his home was near by."

"Then go, I tell you, and search the country far and wide, and bring

him to me."

After their departure, the baron remained in deep thought for a long

time.

"Strange," muttered he, "passing strange, how this painter seems to

be my genius. A good genius too-near in moments of peril. How he

looked as his face rose above the waves, while he bore my daughter

to the shore. Yet how can I give her to him? I cannot."

The attendants returned at evening. Their search was unsuccessful.

But one said that a tall, noble-looking man had departed in the

diligence for Florence at early dawn.

"'Tis well," exclaimed Borelloni. "I fear to meet him. Better is it

that he should go."

Summer with its heat had passed away, and mild September had now

come, when Florence again becomes delightful. The villa at

Thrasymene was now forsaken, and the palace of Borelloni at Florence

again was all joyous and thronged with people as of yore. Again the

carriage of the count rolled along the Lung' Arno, and he received

the salutations of his friends.

Stella was lovely as before, but in her face there was a more

pensive expression than usual, a sadness that was not customary. For

she had not seen him whom she adored-the brave youth who had twice

esteemed his own life as nothing, in order to snatch her from death.

And what could move her father if this could not? He was more

thoughtful than before, and never spoke of that scene. He had never

even offered to express his gratitude to her deliverer.

Yet that evening she was again to go to the gardens of Boboli and

meet her lover. Her heart bounded with joy at the anticipation of

coming happiness; and the moments seemed like hours, as they slowly,

slowly passed away.

Again the beautiful gardens were arrayed in loveliness, and beneath

the solemn shade of the lofty trees Mario again sat beside his

Stella. They could hardly speak their hearts were full.

"And so you were long by Thrasymene and never came to me, Mario,"

she at length said.

"I would not do so. It was enough for me to be near and watch you."

"But not enough for me," she cried, with tears in her eyes. "O

Mario! I am doubly yours, for you have twice saved me from death."

"Speak not of that," he said. "I must soon know my fate. My picture

is nearly finished. In two days it will hang in yonder palace," said

he, pointing to the Palazzo Pitti. "For-what do you think-the Grand

Duke has visited my studio, and told me to bring it there."

"The Grand Duke! Was he pleased with it?"

"He praised it in unmeasured terms."

"I knew so, Mario."

Blissful was the interview, and sad were the lovers to separate. But

they had to depart, and soon Stella was at home.

Mario, filled with pleasing hope, looked at the beauty of the scene,

and went out for a walk. He wandered toward the southern gate, and

went out up a long avenue, where trees overhanging formed a long and

shadowy archway. It was a still and peaceful walk at evening. He sat

down at length behind the trunk of one of the trees, and fell into a

reverie.

Soon he was roused by the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked

down the road, and saw two men stealthily approaching, armed, and

conversing earnestly in low tones. They stopped not more than two

yards from him and sat down. Mario could not be seen on account of

his concealed position.

"Federigo," said one, "this is bad business."

"What!" said the other--"a bad business?"

"I mean not bad, but dangerous. Now if it were only to take a few

piastres, I would not care; but to kill a man, coldly and without

provocation, is rather bad."

"But we get two hundred, you know?"

"Ah, there you are right. They will jingle pleasantly, will they

not?"

The sound of a horse's steps was heard coming down the road. The men

crept into concealment and were silent. Mario also preserved

silence, and clenching his stout stick more firmly, waited the

issue.

"He is coming," said one in an earnest whisper. "It is

he-Borelloni."

Mario's heart leaped within his bosom at the word. He almost

determined to rush upon the villains. But it would be premature, and

he would be attacked. He could save the life of Borelloni more

easily by waiting.

The horseman drew nearer and nearer. He was walking his horse slowly

down the road. He soon came up a few yards from the spot where these

men and Mario sat concealed. There he paused for a moment.

"Will he stop, or go back?" whispered one.

"No-hush!" said the other.

Borelloni came on, he came abreast of them-then one fired a pistol,

and both sprang out. One seized the horse, while the other dragged

the baron to the ground, crying:

"Say your prayers, old man. You must die."

"Villains!" roared a loud voice behind them, and Mario, springing

out, gave one bound and felled the wretch to the earth. The other,

frightened and surprised, stood in speechless astonishment. Mario

rushed up to him and raised his arm to strike. The man fired. His

pistol was knocked aside by Mario, and the next moment he lay

senseless on the ground.

Mario came to Borelloni and raised him from the ground.

"Are you hurt?" he inquired.

"Good God! Is it possible!"

"I am Mario. I thank Heaven I am here to prevent these ruffians from

executing their design. Can I assist you to mount?"

He assisted the count to get on his horse again. By this time a

troop of soldiers, alarmed by the pistol reports, had come to the

place.

"Take those men with you," said Mario. "They have attempted the life

of Count Borelloni. And accompany the count to the city. But

what-you are wounded."

"No, the bullet only grazed my head. Mario you have saved my life. I

am speechless. I feel more than I can utter now."

"Do not thank me. Thank Heaven who sent me here. Good-night, my

lord." And turning, he was soon out of sight.

Stella sat in her chamber that night thinking upon her interview

with Mario. She lost herself in conjectures about the future-so

dark, so obscure, and yet it might be-so bright and happy. The noise

below told her of her father's arrival home, and she ran down to

welcome him.

"My father! How late you are! But what!" She started back in horror

at the sight of his bloody forehead. "Are you hurt? are you wounded,

father?"

"I was set upon by two ruffians, and would probably have been

killed, if--"

"Attacked, wounded! O Heaven! You shall not go out alone, father,

you must not. You are feeble, and cannot now defend yourself."

She made him sit down, and tenderly washed his wound, and stayed the

blood till the doctor came. After the wound was dressed the doctor

departed and Stella spoke.

"You said you were saved, but did not tell me how, nor did you tell

me his name. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him well, and have reason to know him?"

"Who is he?"

"Mario."

"Mario again? Great Heaven!"

Two days afterward Count Borelloni sat in his study, musing upon the

strange occurrences of the few past months. His thoughts dwelt upon

Mario, who thrice had been his benefactor.

"I cannot account for it. How intense, how absorbing, how wonderful

must be his love for my daughter. He has treated my scorn with

kindness. When I forbade him the house, he never came here. I

admire, I reverence so lofty a spirit!

"Where would I be now-where would my daughter be, if Mario had not

been near to save us, if he, careless of his own life, had not been

our preserver? I wondered before. Twice he had come before me-a

genius-a preserver of myself and my child. Now he comes again and

saves me. It is wonderful! I am overcome. Pride cannot resist such

greatness of soul-such magnificent actions, and Stella adores him. I

do not wonder at it. Shall I then refuse to make her happy? A few

short years are all that remain of life to me. I wish to leave my

child happiness as her best inheritance. I can make her happy now. I

can make a return to Mario for his generous actions. I can make

myself happy in the contemplation of their joy. All is over.

Farewell pride. What is birth and wealth and pride, when compared to

the glory of such illustrious actions?"

He sat down at his desk and wrote as follows:

"Mario, you have conquered. I have treated you with scorn and

indignity. You have returned it with kindness. You have saved my own

life twice, and twice have you saved the life of one for whose

happiness I would die a thousand deaths. Mario, I reverence your

lofty spirit. I admire such noble feeling-such bravery and

generosity. Come to my home. It shall henceforth be yours also. Come

to my heart, which is proud to love and honor you. Come, and Stella

shall he the reward which you shall receive as the best and most

priceless gift of the grateful BORELLONI."

He rose from his chair and called for Stella. She came to him

speedily.

"Stella," said he, "I have at last found one to whom I can confide

you, who will be your protector when I am gone. What do you say to

that? You change color-you tremble."

"O father, why now? Why not wait for a time? I am young. I will

not-I cannot leave you."

"You need not leave me. Your husband shall stay here, you both shall

cheer my old age."

"Father, I--"

"Read this, my child."

Stella glanced at it, read it hurriedly, and in a transport of joy

flung her arms about her father's neck and kissed him again and

again, while the tears stood in his eyes as he embraced his

daughter.

"Yes, Stella, all is over. I bow before him and do him honor. This

shall go to him, and he will come here to receive his reward." He

gave the letter to his servant, and again sat down to receive the

thanks and witness the happiness of his daughter.

An hour passed away, and a messenger came from the duke bearing a

letter to the Count Borelloni. It was a request that in an hour he

should come to the Pitti Palace. "For," said he, "I have lately

received as an accession to my paintings, a picture of such rare

excellence, such exquisite beauty in conception, and wonderful skill

in execution, that I set no bounds to my joy in obtaining it.

Knowing your passion for art, I have sent to you this notice of its

reception."

The count hastened to prepare for his departure. He wondered what

was the nature of the piece of which the duke had spoken so highly.

"It must be a wonderful painting," said he, "for the duke is usually

sparing in his praise. It is probably one of Rafaelle or Guido.

Well, I will soon see it."

Stella felt a joy which words could not utter. She recollected all

that Mario had told her of his picture, and of the duke's visit, of

his flattering words of commendation-and she believed at once that

his picture was the one he spoke of.

The count went off, and at the expiration of the hour entered the

palace. He was received by the duke. He was led through the long

suite of rooms where the splendor of royal magnificence is all

unnoticed amid the charms of priceless paintings, for there the

Madonna of Rafaelle tells of the boundless depths of a mother's

love, and there Murillo's Madonna breathes forth virgin purity.

At length the duke stopped before a picture covered by a screen. He

turned to the count, and saying, "Now Borelloni prepare for a

surprise," drew aside the curtain which covered it.

The count started, for not among all the galleries of Italy, not

among the priceless collections of Rome, had his eyes ever rested

upon so wonderful, so living a picture! It was a living, a breathing

form, which there, drawing aside a hanging, seemed to come forth to

meet the gazer. Upon the countenance there was the perfection of

ideal beauty. Loveliness, angelic, heavenly, was radiant upon the

face, and that face was one well known to him, for Stella stood

there, but Stella-glorified and immortal.

"Wonderful! Miraculous!" burst from his lips. "It is the creation of

a god. It is not the work of man! Who is he? Where is he? The genius

who formed this? How could it happen that it should be Stella, my

daughter? Who is the artist?"

"He is here in the next apartment," said the duke, and going to the

door he spoke to some one. He returned, leading the artist.

"This is he," said the duke. "Mario Fostello."

"Mario!" cried the count. "Mario, my preserver!" And he ran up to

him and embraced him.

"Mario, is all forgotten? Forgive me. But I wrong you in asking it."

The duke looked on in wonder, and could not conceal his surprise.

But the count begged him to excuse his emotion. "Would you know the

cause of it?" said he.

"I am all curiosity."

The count then related all-told him of Mario's love for Stella, of

his own pride, of Mario's actions. When it was ended, the duke, who

had displayed the greatest emotion, arose and went to Mario.

"Never," he cried, "most noble youth-never have I heard of more

generosity and greatness of soul. Happy is he who can call you his

friend. But you shall not be neglected by me, for while I live, you

will always have a friend. I honor your actions. I love your noble

character."

Mario was overwhelmed by mingled emotions of happiness and

confusion. Joy had rushed in upon him, like a torrent, and unable to

speak, he could only express by his glance, the feelings of his

soul.