The one who blushed was Florien Arnaud, a youth from the French Cantons. He was slender and graceful in figure, with beautiful features, clear blue eyes, and a complexion fresh as Hylas, when the enamored water-nymphs carried him away in their arms. He danced like a zephyr, and sang little airy French romanzas in the sweetest of tenor voices. The one who turned pale was Pierre Berthoud, of Geneva. He had massy features, a bulky frame, and clumsy motions. But the shape of his head indicated powerful intellect, and his great dark eyes glowed from under the pent-house of his brows, like a forge at midnight. He played on the bass-viol and the trombone, and when he sang, the tones sounded as if they came up from deep iron mines. Rosabella turned quickly away from their expressive glances, and blushing deeply resumed her spinning. The Frenchman felt certain the blush was for him; the Genevan thought he would willingly give his life to be sure it was for _him_. But unlike as the young men were in person and character, and both attracted toward the same lovely maiden, they were yet extremely friendly to each other, and usually found enjoyment in the harmonious contrast of their different gifts. The first feeling of estrangement that came between them was one evening, when Florien sang remarkably well, and Rosabella accompanied him on her guitar. She evidently enjoyed the graceful music with all her soul. Her countenance was more radiantly beautiful than usual, and when the fascinating singer rose to go, she begged him to sing another favorite song, and then another and another. “She never urges _me_ to sing with her,” said Pierre, as he and Florien retired for the night. “And with very good reason,” replied his friend, laughing. “Your stentorian tones would quite drown her weak sweet voice, and her light touch on the guitar. You might as well have a hammer-and-anvil accompaniment to a Canary bird.” Seeing discontent in the countenance of his companion, he added soothingly, “Nay, my good friend, don’t be offended by this playful comparison. Your voice is magnificently strong and beautifully correct, but it is made for grander things than those graceful little garlands of sound, which Rosabella and I weave so easily.” Pierre sprang up quickly, and went to the other side of the room. “Rosabella and I,” were sounds that went hissing through his heart, like a red-hot arrow. But his manly efforts soon conquered the jealous feeling, and he said cheerfully, “Well, Florien, let us accept the offer of good Father Breguet. We will try our skill fairly and honorably, and leave him and Rosabella to decide, without knowing which is your work and which is mine.”