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Updated: June 28, 2025
"There has also been staying at our hotel that Count Sarelli who came one evening to dinner at our house, but he is gone away now. He sat all day in the winter garden reading, and at night he went out with Papa. Miss Naylor says he is unhappy, but I think he does not take enough exercise; and O Chris! one day he said to me, 'That is your sister, Mademoiselle, that young lady in the white dress?
"We shall be late," she said, glowing, and catching up her book: "I'm always late!" There was one other guest at dinner, a well-groomed person with pale, fattish face, dark eyes, and hair thin on the temples, whose clothes had a military cut. He looked like a man fond of ease, who had gone out of his groove, and collided with life. Herr Paul introduced him as Count Mario Sarelli.
Agostino Sarelli saw himself, in fact, a powerful chief; and there were times when the splendid scenery of his mountain-fastness, its inspiring air, its wild eagle-like grandeur, independence, and security, gave him a proud contentment, and he looked at his sword and loved it as a bride.
"Great ability great eloquence disliked by superiors; formerly great preacher in Rome; supposed to be at Ruscino as castigation; learned benevolent correct." "Humph!" said Gallo, disappointed. "Not likely then to cause trouble or disorder? to necessitate painful measures?" Sarelli rapidly took his cue. "Hitherto, your Excellency, uniformly correct; except in one instance " "That instance?"
Then Sarelli said: "What do you say to anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear to pieces!" "As to that," Harz answered defiantly, "it maybe wise to hang them, but then there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang." "How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?" murmured Christian.
A sort of pity seized on Harz. He wanted to say something that would be consoling but could find no words; and suddenly he felt disgusted. What link was there between him and this man; between his love and this man's love? "Harz!" muttered Sarelli; "Harz means 'tar, hein? Your family is not an old one?" Harz glared, and said: "My father is a peasant."
Artist no less than monk, he found in this wondrous shrine of beauty a repose both for his artistic and his religious nature; and while waiting for Agostino Sarelli to find his uncle's residence, he had determined to pass the interval in this holy solitude.
The natural temperament of Agostino Sarelli had been rather that of the poet and artist than of the warrior. In the beautiful gardens of his ancestral home it had been his delight to muse over the pages of Dante and Ariosto, to sing to the lute and to write in the facile flowing rhyme of his native Italian the fancies of the dream-land of his youth.
Suddenly within arm's length of her a man appeared, his stick shouldered like a sword. He raised his hat. "Good-evening! You do not remember me? Sarelli. Pardon! You looked like a ghost standing there. How badly those fellows marched! We hang, you see, on the skirts of our profession and criticise; it is all we are fit for."
Sarelli said again, raising his hat, "that girl the white girl I saw. You do well to get away!" he swayed a little as he walked. "That old fellow what is his name-Trrreffr-ry! What ideas of honour!" He mumbled: "Honour is an abstraction! If a man is not true to an abstraction, he is a low type; but wait a minute!" He put his hand to his side as though in pain.
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