"Oh! Madame di Negra!--Beatrice!" he exclaimed, tears in his eyes, and his voice half-broken by generous emotion; "forgive me--forgive me; don't see in me a mere acquaintance. By accident I learned, or, rather, guessed--this--this strange insult to which you are so unworthily exposed. I am here. Think of me--but as a friend--the truest friend. O! Beatrice"--and he bent his head over the hand he held--"I never dared say so before--it seems presuming to say it now--but I can not help it. I love you--I love you with my whole heart and soul--to serve you--if only but to serve you!--I ask nothing else." And a sob went from his warm, young, foolish heart. The Italian was deeply moved. Nor was her nature that of the mere sordid adventuress. So much love, and so much confidence! She was not prepared to betray the one, and entrap the other. "Rise--rise," she said, softly; "I thank you gratefully. But do not suppose that I--" "Hush--hush!--you must not refuse me. Hush!--don't let your pride speak." "No--it is not my pride. You exaggerate what is occurring here. You forget that I have a brother. I have sent for him. He is the only one I can apply to. Ah! that is his knock! But I shall never, never forget that I have found one generous, noble heart in this hollow world." Frank would have replied, but he heard the Count's voice on the stairs, and had only time to rise and withdraw to the window, trying hard to repress his agitation and compose his countenance. Count di Peschiera entered--entered as a very personation of the beauty and magnificence of careless, luxurious, pampered, egotistical wealth. His surtout, trimmed with the costliest sables, flung back from his splendid chest. Amidst the folds of the glossy satin that enveloped his throat gleamed a turquoise, of such value as a jeweler might have kept for fifty years before he could find a customer rich and frivolous enough to buy it. The very head of his cane was a masterpiece of art, and the man himself, so elegant despite his strength, and so fresh despite his years! It is astonishing how well men wear when they think of no one but themselves! "Pr-rr!" said the Count, not observing Frank behind the draperies of the window; "P-rr--. It seems to me that you must have passed a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. And now--_Dieu me damne--quoi faire_!" Beatrice pointed to the window, and felt as if she could have sunk into the earth for shame. But as the Count spoke in French, and Frank did not very readily comprehend that language, the words escaped him, though his ear was shocked by a certain satirical levity of tone. Frank came forward. The Count held out his hand, and, with a rapid change of voice and manner, said, "One whom my sister admits at such a moment must be a friend to me." "Mr. Hazeldean," said Beatrice, with meaning, "would indeed have nobly pressed on me the offer of an aid which I need no more, since you, my brother, are here."