“O, too generous man; pardon me if I have so long been unable to express my amaze, my gratitude; but I can not—no, I can not, while your prospects remain thus uncertain, avail myself of your—of your inconsiderate magnanimity. Your rare conduct can only redouble my own scruples, if you, as I firmly hope and believe, are restored to your great possessions—you would naturally look so much higher than me. Should those hopes fail, then, indeed, it may be different; yet, even then, what position, what fortune, have _I_ to offer to your daughter worthy of her?” “You are well born: all gentlemen are equals,” said Riccabocca, with a sort of easy nobleness. “You have youth, information, talent—sources of certain wealth in this happy country—powerful connections; and, in fine, if you are satisfied with marrying for love, I shall be contented;—if not, speak openly. As to the restoration to my possessions, I can scarcely think that probable while my enemy lives. And even in that case, since I saw you last, something has occurred (added Riccabocca with a strange smile, which seemed to Randal singularly sinister and malignant) “that may remove all difficulties. Meanwhile, do not think me so extravagantly magnanimous—do not underrate the satisfaction I must feel at knowing Violante safe from the designs of Peschiera—safe, and for ever, under a husband’s roof. I will tell you an Italian proverb—it contains a truth full of wisdom and terror:” “ ‘Hai cinquanta Amici?—non basta—hai un Nemico?—è troppo.(6)’ ” “Something has occurred!” echoed Randal, not heeding the conclusion of this speech, and scarcely hearing the proverb which the sage delivered in his most emphatic and tragic tone. “Something has occurred! My dear friend, be plainer. What has occurred?” Riccabocca remained silent. “Something that induces you to bestow your daughter on me?” Riccabocca nodded, and emitted a low chuckle. “The very laugh of a fiend,” muttered Randal. “Something that makes her not worth bestowing. He betrays himself. Cunning people always do.” “Pardon me,” said the Italian at last, “if I do not answer your question; you will know later; but, at present, this is a family secret. And now I must turn to another and more alarming cause for my frankness to you.” Here Riccabocca’s face changed, and assumed an expression of mingled rage and fear. “You must know,” he added, sinking his voice, “that Giacomo has seen a strange person loitering about the house, and looking up at the windows; and he has no doubt—nor have I—that this is some spy or emissary of Peschiera’s.” “Impossible; how could he discover you?” “I know not; but no one else has any interest in doing so. The man kept at a distance, and Giacomo could not see his face.” “It may be but a mere idler. Is this all?” “No; the old woman who serves us said that she was asked at a shop ‘if we were not Italians?’ ” “And she answered?” “ ‘No;’ but owned that ‘we had a foreign servant, Giacomo.’ ”