Nobili has not moved, but, as each speaks, his eye shifts rapidly from one to the other.  His face from pale grows livid, and there is a throb about his temples that sounds in his ears like a thousand hammers.

“Orsetti,” Nobili says, sternly, “I address myself to you.  You are the oldest here.  You are the first man I knew after I came to Lucca.  You are all concealing something from me.  I entreat you, Orsetti, as man to man, tell me whose name has been coupled with that of my affianced wife?  That it is a lie I know beforehand—­a base and palpable lie!  She has been reared at home in perfect solitude.”

Nobili spoke with passionate vehemence.  The hot blood rushed over his face and neck, and tingled to his very fingers.  Now he glances from man to man in an appeal defiant, yet pleading, pitiful to behold.  Every face grows grave.

Orsetti is the first to reply.

“I feel deeply for you, Nobili.  We all love you.”

“Yes, all,” responded Malatesta and Ruspoli, speaking together.

“You must not attach too much importance to idle gossip,” says Orsetti.

“No, no,” cried Ruspoli, “don’t.  I will stand by you, Nobili.  I know the lady by sight—­a little English beau”

“Scandal!  Who is the man?  By God, I’ll have his blood within this very hour!”

Nobili is now wrought up beyond all endurance.

“You can’t,” says Orazio Franchi, tapping his heel upon the marble pavement.  “He’s gone.”

“Gone!  I’ll follow him to hell!” roars Nobili “Who is he?”

“Possibly he may find his own way there in time,” answers Orazio, with a sneer.  He rises so as to increase the distance between himself and Prince Ruspoli.  “But as yet the wretch crawls on mother earth.”

“Silence, Orazio!” shouts Ruspoli, “or you may go there yourself quicker than Marescotti.”

“Marescotti!  Is that the name?” cries Nobili, with a hungry eye, that seems to thirst for vengeance.  “Who is Marescotti?”

“This is some horrid fiction,” Nobili mutters to himself.  Stay!—­Where had he heard that name lately?  He gnawed his fingers until the blood came, and a crimson drop fell upon the marble floor.  Suddenly an icy chill rose at his heart.  He could not breathe.  He sank into a chair—­then rose again, and stood before Orsetti with a face out of which ten years of youth had fled.  Yes, Marescotti—­that is the very man Enrica had mentioned to him under the trees at Corellia.  Each letter of it blazes in fire before his eyes.  Yes—­she had said Marescotti had read her eyes.  “O God!” and Nobili groans aloud, and buries his face within his hands.

“You take this too much to heart, my dear Mario,” Count Orsetti said; “indeed you do, else I would not say so.  Remember there is nothing proved.  Be careful,” Orsetti whispered in the other’s ear, glancing round.  Every eye was riveted on Nobili.

Orsetti felt that Nobili had forgotten the public place and the others present—­such as Count Malatesta, Orazio Franchi, and Baldassare, who, though they had not spoken, had devoured every word.