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How he looked as his face rose above the waves, while he bore my daughter to the shore. Yet how can I give her to him? I cannot." The attendants returned at evening. Their search was unsuccessful. But one said that a tall, noble-looking man had departed in the diligence for Florence at early dawn. "'Tis well," exclaimed Borelloni. "I fear to meet him. Better is it that he should go."
Mario also preserved silence, and clenching his stout stick more firmly, waited the issue. "He is coming," said one in an earnest whisper. "It is he-Borelloni." Mario's heart leaped within his bosom at the word. He almost determined to rush upon the villains. But it would be premature, and he would be attacked. He could save the life of Borelloni more easily by waiting.
The horseman drew nearer and nearer. He was walking his horse slowly down the road. He soon came up a few yards from the spot where these men and Mario sat concealed. There he paused for a moment. "Will he stop, or go back?" whispered one. "No-hush!" said the other. Borelloni came on, he came abreast of them-then one fired a pistol, and both sprang out.
He turned to the count, and saying, "Now Borelloni prepare for a surprise," drew aside the curtain which covered it. The count started, for not among all the galleries of Italy, not among the priceless collections of Rome, had his eyes ever rested upon so wonderful, so living a picture! It was a living, a breathing form, which there, drawing aside a hanging, seemed to come forth to meet the gazer.
But the indignation and pride of Borelloni rose high, and he contemptuously ordered Mario to withdraw and never again to enter his house. There was one feeling in the heart of the old count which far exceeded every other, and that was an intense love for his daughter. Beautiful, high-souled and accomplished, she was worthy of the highest station in the land, and such a station he desired for her.
All Florence rung with the tidings of the deed the name of Mario was spoken everywhere, and the city honored the performer of so bold an action. "Now what will Borelloni do to reward the gallant preserver of his own life and his beloved daughter!" "He will give him a thousand piastres," said one. "He will enrich him for life," said another. "He will do no such thing," said a third.
He arose, and all dripping as he was, left the house, in spite of the eagerness of the attendants. "No," he said, "my home is near by, and why should I remain here? I will go. Leave me." And he arose and left the house. "Where is the saviour of my child?" said Borelloni, on the following morning. "Gone?" said his attendants. "Gone? Fools! Why did you send him away thus?"
Mario was overwhelmed by mingled emotions of happiness and confusion. Joy had rushed in upon him, like a torrent, and unable to speak, he could only express by his glance, the feelings of his soul. "God bless you, my lord duke!" at length he cried. "God bless you, Count Borelloni! I am unworthy of such praise, but I can never forget your kindness to an obscure artist." "An obscure artist?
"Yes, Stella, all is over. I bow before him and do him honor. This shall go to him, and he will come here to receive his reward." He gave the letter to his servant, and again sat down to receive the thanks and witness the happiness of his daughter. An hour passed away, and a messenger came from the duke bearing a letter to the Count Borelloni.
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