Never was I so much struck with her resemblance to Bianca. She had the same placid brow, the same clear and brilliant eyes, the same exquisitely gentle expression and classic contour of face, which had gained these lovely sisters the soubriquet of the three Italian Graces. But now, alas! her features wore the hue of death, and appeared yet more ashy when contrasted with the heavy masses of black curls which fell in disorder over her shoulders; her teeth were set, and her eyes glared with an unnatural lustre. With all the tenacious energy of one who struggles for life, she clung to the satin skirt of the viscontessa, whose right hand yet grasped a suite of cards, whilst her left was filled with counters. The old lady was quite paralyzed. On the other side clung Bianca, almost sinking with terror, and surveying, with restless and tearful eyes, the fierce group of armed men who thronged the apartment. "Heaven!—O Heaven!" exclaimed Francesca, in piercing accents; "save me, dearest Signora—my aunt—my second mother—save me! Let me not be torn from my father’s house by these frightful men! O misery! what have I done? O for my father’s arm to shield me now! But he died in Apulia. Luigi, Luigi, save me, or I am lost to you for ever! Luigi, anima mia!" What a voice she had! Never did that common, but most endearing epithet of Italian love sound so soft, so thrilling, to my ear. She was free, almost ere the words had left her pallid lips. Santugo struck down both the men who held her, and the flashing of their pistols in his face only served to increase his fury. Bearing her to the other end of the room he defied them to come on, with a chivalric rashness not often possessed now by his countrymen. They were not slow in accepting the invitation: their courage—as usual with the "swinish multitude"—being increased by their numbers, they pressed forward with clubbed carbines and fixed bayonets, and a sharp conflict ensued. Feeling certain that Santugo would be worsted, I forced a passage to his side, and endeavoured to beat back the assailants with my sabre; and now came the tug of war. Francesca had swooned, and hung like a piece of drapery over Luigi’s arm; the viscontessa implored mercy for her, whilst Bianca buried her face in the bosom of Anina, who lent her powerful voice to swell the clamour: reviling the intruders, and encouraging us to slay them without mercy.