mantle—­a present from the emperor, after the victory of Altopasso, and the triumph of the Ghibellines!  Looking into the calmness of that impressive face, in the mystery of the darkened presence-chamber, she can forget that the greatness of her house is fallen, the broad lands sold or mortgaged, the treasures granted by the state lavished, one even of the ancestral palaces sold; nay, worse, not only sold, but desecrated by commerce in the person of Count Nobili.

Seated there, on the seigneurial chair, under the regal canopy, she can forget all this.  For a few short hours she can live again in the splendor of the past—­the past, when a Guinigi was the equal of kings, his word more absolute than law, his frown more terrible than death!

Before the marchesa is a square table of dark marble, on which in old time was laid the sword of state (a special insignia of office), borne before the Lord of Lucca in public processions, embassies, and tournaments.  This table is now covered with small piled-up heaps of gold and silver coin (the gold much less in quantity than the silver).  There are a few jewels, and some diamond pendants in antique settings, a diamond necklace, crosses, medals, and orders, and a few uncut gems and antique intaglios.

The marchesa takes up each object and examines it.  She counts the gold-pieces, putting them back again one by one in rows, by tens and twenties.  She handles the crisp bank-notes.  She does this over and over again so slowly and so carefully, it would seem, as if she expected the money to grow under her fingers.  She has placed all in order before her—­the jewels on one side, the money and the notes on the other.  As she moves them to and fro on the smooth marble with the points of her long fingers, she shakes her head and sighs.  Then she touches a secret spring, and a drawer opens from under the table.  Into this drawer she deposits all that lies before her, her fingers still clinging to the gold.

After a while she rises, and casting a parting glance at the portrait of Castruccio—­among all her ancestors Castruccio was the object of her special reverence—­she moves leisurely onward through the various apartments lying beyond the presence-chamber.

The doors, draped with heavy tapestry curtains, are all open.  It is a long, gloomy suite of rooms, where the sun never shines, looking into the inner court.

The marchesa’s steps are noiseless, her countenance grave and pale.  Here and there she pauses to gaze into the face of a picture, or to brush off the dust from some object specially dear to her.  She pauses, minutely observing every thing around her.