In the mean time a knowledge of the facts has spread through this city.  The public voice is with us to a man.  Once more the citizens have rallied round the great Guinigi name.  Crowds assemble daily before Count Nobili’s palace.  His name is loudly execrated by the citizens.  Stones have been thrown, and windows broken; indeed, there are threats of burning the palace.  The authorities have not interfered.  Count Nobili has now, I hear, returned privately to Lucca.  He dares not show himself, or he would be stabbed; but Count Nobili’s lawyer has had a conference with Maestro Guglielmi.  Cavaliere Trenta insisted upon being present.  This was against my will.  Cavaliere Trenta always says too much.  Maestro Guglielmi gave Count Nobili’s lawyer three days to decide.  At the expiration of that time Signore Guglielmi met him again.  Count Nobili’s lawyer declared that with the utmost difficulty he had prevailed upon his client to make good the contract by the religious ceremony of marriage.  Let every thing therefore be ready for the ceremony.  This letter is private.  You will say nothing further to my niece than that Count Nobili will arrive at Corellia at two o’clock the day after to-morrow to marry her.  Farewell.

Your friend and well-wisher,

“MARCHESA GUINIGI.”

The morning of the third day rose gray and chill at Corellia.  Much rain had fallen during the night, and a damp mist streamed up from the valleys, shutting out the mighty range of mountains.  In the plains of Pisa and Florence the October sun still blazed glorious as ever on the lush grass and flowery meadows—­on the sluggish streams and the rich blossoms.  There, the trees still rustled in green luxuriance, to soft breezes perfumed with orange-trees and roses.  But in the mountain-fastnesses of the Apennines autumn had come on apace.  Such faded leaves as clung to the shrubs about the villa were drooping under the weight of the rain-drops, and a few autumnal flowers that still lit up the broad borders lay prostrate on the earth.  Each tiny stream and brawling water-course—­even mere little humble rills that dried up in summer—­now rushed downward over rocks and stones blackened with moss, to pour themselves into the river Serchio.  In the forest the turf was carpeted with yellow leaves, carried hither and thither by the winds.  The stems and branches of the chestnuts ranged themselves, tier above tier, like silver pillars, against the red sandstone of the rocks.  The year was dying out, and with the year all Nature was dying out likewise.

Within the villa a table was spread in the great sala, with wine and such simple refreshments as the brief notice allowed.  As the morning advanced, clouds gathered more thickly over the heavens.  The gloomy daylight coming in at the doors, and through the many windows, caught up no ray within.  The vaguely-sailing ships painted upon the wall, destined never to find a port in those unknown seas for which their sails were set—­and that exasperating company opposite, that through all changes of weal or woe danced remorselessly under the greenwood—­were shrouded in misty shadows.