“Come, my daughter,” said Fra Pacifico, advancing, “fear not to sign the marriage-contract.  Think of the blessings it will bring to hundreds of miserable peasants, who are suffering from your want of means to help them!”

“Fra Pacifico,” exclaimed the marchesa, scarcely able to control herself, “I respect your office, but this is still my house, and I order you to be silent.  Where am I to sign?”—­she addressed herself to Ser Giacomo.

“Here, madame,” answered the almost inaudible voice of the notary.

The marchesa took the pen, and in a large, firm hand wrote her full name and titles.  She took a malicious pleasure in spreading them out over the page.

Enrica signed her name, in delicate little letters, after her aunt’s.  Count Nobili had already affixed his signature.  Cavaliere Trenta and the priest were the witnesses.

“There is one request I would make, marchesa,” Nobili said, addressing her.  “I shall await in Lucca the exact day you may please to name; but, madame”—­and with a lover’s ardor strong within him, he advanced nearer to where the marchesa stood, and raised his hand as if to touch her—­“I beg you not to keep me waiting long.”

The marchesa drew back, and contemplated him with a haughty stare.  His manner and his request were both alike offensive to her.  She would have Count Nobili to understand that she would admit no shadow of familiarity; that her will had been forced, but that in all else she regarded him with the same animosity as before.

Nobili had understood her action and her meaning.  “Devil!” he muttered between his clinched teeth.  He hated himself for having been betrayed into the smallest warmth.  With a flashing eye he turned from the marchesa to Enrica, and whispered in her ear, “My only love, this is more than I can bear!”

Enrica had heard nothing.  She had been lost in happy thoughts.  In her mind a vision was passing.  She was in the close street of San Simone, within its deep shadows that fell so early in the afternoon.  Before her stood the two grim palaces, the cavernous doorways and the sculptured arms of the Guinigi displayed on both:  one, her old home; the other, that was to be her home.  She saw herself go in here, cross the pillared court and mount upward.  It was neither day nor night, but all shone with crystal brightness.  Then Nobili’s voice came to her, and she roused herself.

“My love,” he repeated, “I must go—­I must go!  I cannot trust myself a moment longer with—­”

What he had on his lips need not be written.  “That lady,” he added, hastily correcting himself, and he pointed to the marchesa, who, led by the cavaliere, had reseated herself upon the sofa, looking defiance at everybody.

“I have borne it all for your sake, Enrica.”  As Nobili spoke, he led her aside to one of the windows.  “Now, good-by,” and his eyes gathered upon her with passionate fondness; “think of me day and night.”