“_Ma foi_—it comes to the same thing; _les absents ont toujours tort_. I speak to a man of the world. No; without some such guarantee for his faith, as his daughter’s marriage with myself would give, his recall is improbable. By the heaven above us, it shall be _impossible_!” The Count rose as he said this—rose as if the mask of simulation had fairly fallen from the visage of crime—rose tall and towering, a very image of masculine power and strength, beside the slight bended form and sickly face of the intellectual schemer. Randal was startled; but, rising also, he said, carelessly, “What if this guarantee can no longer be given? what if, in despair of return, and in resignation to his altered fortunes, your cousin has already married his daughter to some English suitor?” “Ah, that would indeed be, next to my own marriage with her, the most fortunate thing that could happen to myself.” “How? I don’t understand!” “Why, if my cousin has so abjured his birthright, and forsworn his rank—if this heritage, which is so dangerous from its grandeur, pass, in case of his pardon, to some obscure Englishman—a foreigner—a native of a country that has no ties with ours—a country that is the very refuge of levelers and Carbonari—_mort de ma vie_—do you think that such would not annihilate all chance of my cousin’s restoration, and be an excuse even to the eyes of Italy for formally conferring the sequestrated estates on an Italian? No; unless, indeed, the girl were to marry an Englishman of such name and birth and connection as would in themselves be a guarantee (and how in poverty is this likely?), I should go back to Vienna with a light heart, if I could say, ‘My kinswoman is an Englishman’s wife—shall her children be the heirs to a house so renowned for its lineage, and so formidable for its wealth?’ _Parbleu!_ if my cousin were but an adventurer, or merely a professor, he had been pardoned long ago. The great enjoy the honor not to be pardoned easily.” Randal fell into deep but brief thought. The Count observed him, not face to face, but by the reflection of an opposite mirror. “This man knows something; this man is deliberating; this man can help me,” thought the Count. But Randal said nothing to confirm these hypotheses. Recovering from his abstraction, he expressed courteously his satisfaction at the Count’s prospects either way. “And since, after all,” he added, “you mean so well to your cousin, it occurs to me that you might discover him by a very simple English process.” “How?” “Advertise that if he will come to some place appointed, he will hear of something to his advantage.” The Count shook his head. “He would suspect me, and not come.” “But he was intimate with you. He joined an insurrection; you were more prudent. You did not injure him, though you may have benefited yourself. Why should he shun you?” “The conspirators forgive none who do not conspire; besides, to speak frankly, he thought I injured him.”