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Updated: June 29, 2025
Does it breathe from the azure seas that belt the classic land or in the rippling cadence of untrodden streams amid lonely mountains? Whence comes it? how? where? I cannot tell. The marchesa is seated on her accustomed seat; her face is shaded by her hand. So stern, so solemn, is her attitude that her chair seems suddenly turned into a judgment-seat. The cavaliere has risen at Enrica's entrance.
Pipa, meanwhile, had flung her arms about Enrica, with such an energy that she pinned her to the spot. Pipa pressed her hands about Enrica, feeling every limb; Pipa turned Enrica's white face up ward to the blaze; she stroked her long, fair hair that fell like a mantle round her. "Blessed Mother!" she sobbed, drawing her coarse fingers through the matted curls, "not a hair singed!
Enrica's face is in shadow, but, as she raises it and sees the cavaliere seated beside her aunt, a quiet smile plays about her mouth, and a gleam of pleasure rises in her eyes. What is it that makes youth in Italy so fresh and beautiful so lithe, erect, and strong?
He checked himself, however; then he continued with more calmness: "To become your wife was needful for the honor of Enrica's name, which you had slandered. The child put herself in my hands. I am responsible for this marriage I only. As to the marchesa, do you think she consults Enrica? The hawk and the dove share not the same nest! No, no.
Then the little golden head drooped upon his breast, and nestled there, as if at last at home. Never before had Enrica's dainty form yielded beneath his touch. Before, he had but clasped her little hand, or pressed her dress, or stolen a hasty kiss on those truant locks of hers. Now Enrica was his own, his very own. The blood shot up like fire over his face. His eyes devoured her.
Surely her life-path lay straight before her now! straight into paradise! Not a stone is on that path; not a rise, not a fall. "In a week I will return," Nobili had said. In a week. And his eyes had rested upon her as he spoke the words in a mist of love. Enrica's face was pale and almost stern, and her blue eyes had strange lights and shadows in them.
"Then the signorina must have taken the letter herself." Slightly raising his eyebrows, a sudden light came into his eyes. "That letter has done this. What can Nobili have said to her? Did you see any letter beside her, Pipa, when she fell?" Pipa rose up from the corner where she had been kneeling, raised the sheet, and pointed to a paper clasped in Enrica's hand.
Of this collateral branch, all had died out. Antonio Guinigi, of Mantua, Enrica's father, in the prime of life, was killed in a duel, resulting from one of those small social affronts that so frequently do provoke duels in Italy. But the duel in question, fought by Antonio Guinigi, was unfortunately not so. He died on the spot. Enrica, when two years old, was an orphan.
The walls were broken by doors of varnished pine-wood. These doors led, on the right, to the chapel, Enrica's bedroom, and many empty apartments; on the left, to the marchesa's suite of rooms, the offices, and the stone corridor which communicated with the now ruined tower. High up on the walls of the sala, two large and roughly-painted frescoes decorated the empty spaces.
Pipa dared not speak Pipa dared not breathe so great was her joy. At length she ventured to take one of Enrica's hands in hers, pressed it gently and said to her in a low voice: "You must be very quiet. We are all here." Enrica looked up at Pipa, surprised and frightened; then her eyes wandered round in search of something. She was evidently dwelling upon some idea she could not express.
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