The next time Donna Tullia came to sit, she brought her old Countess, and Del Ferice did not appear.  The portrait was ultimately finished to the satisfaction of all parties, and was hung in Donna Tullia’s drawing-room, to be admired and criticised by all her friends.  But Gouache rejoiced when the thing was finally removed from his studio, for he had grown to hate it, and had been almost willing to flatter it out of all likeness to Madame Mayer, for the sake of not being eternally confronted by the cold stare of her blue eyes.  He finished the Cardinal’s portrait too; and the statesman not only paid for it with unusual liberality, but gave the artist what he called a little memento of the long hours they had spent together.  He opened one of the lockers in his study, and from a small drawer selected an ancient ring, in which was set a piece of crystal with a delicate intaglio of a figure of Victory.  He took Gouache’s hand and slipped the ring upon his finger.  He had taken a singular liking to Anastase.

“Wear it as a, little souvenir of me,” he said kindly.  “It is a Victory; you are a soldier now, so I pray that victory may go with you; and I give Victory herself into your hands.”

“And I,” said Gouache, “will pray that it may be a symbol in my hand of the real victories you are to win.”

“Only a symbol,” returned the Cardinal, thoughtfully.  “Nothing but a symbol.  I was not born to conquer, but to lead a forlorn-hope—­to deceive vanquished men with a hope not real, and to deceive the victors with an unreal fear.  Nevertheless, my friend,” he added, grasping Gouache’s hand, and fixing upon him his small bright eyes,—­“nevertheless, let us fight, fight—­fight to the very end!”

“We will fight to the end, Eminence,” said Gouache.  He was only a private of Zouaves, and the man whose hand he held was great and powerful; but the same spirit was in the hearts of both, the same courage, the same devotion to the failing cause—­and both kept their words, each in his own way.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Astrardente was in some respects a picturesque place.  The position of the little town gave it a view in both directions from where it stood; for it was built upon a precipitous eminence rising suddenly out of the midst of the narrow strip of fertile land, the long and rising valley which, from its lower extremity, conducted by many circuits to the Roman Campagna, and which ended above in the first rough passes of the lower Abruzzi.  The base of the town extended into the vineyards and olive-orchards which surrounded the little hill on all sides; and the summit of it was crowned by the feudal palace-castle—­an enormous building of solid stone, in the style of the fifteenth century.  Upon the same spot had formally stood a rugged fortress, but the magnificent ideas of the Astrardente pope had not tolerated such remains of barbarism; the ancient stronghold had been