In pursuance of this task, Charney soon took his usual seat with the grave demeanour of an experimentalist. But scarcely had he cast his eyes upon the plant when he is shocked by the air of languor apparent in his favourite. The flowers inclining on their peduncles seem to have lost their power of turning towards the sun; their leaves curling inwards their deep and lustrous verdure. For a moment Charney fancies that a heavy storm is at hand, and prepares his mats and osier bands to secure Picciola from the force of the wind or hail. But no! the sky is cloudless—the air serene—and the lark is heard singing out of sight, overhead, secure in the breathlessness of the blue expanse of heaven. Charney’s brow becomes overcast. “She is in want of water,” is his first idea; but having eagerly fetched the pitcher from his chamber, and on his knees beside the plant, removed the lower branches, in order at once to reach the root, he is struck motionless with consternation. All—all—is explained. His Picciola is about to perish! While the flowers and perfumes were multiplying to increase his studies and enjoyments, the stem of the plant, also, was increasing unobserved. Enclosed between two stones of the pavement, and strangled by their pressure, a deep indentation first gave token of her sufferings, the surface of which being at length crushed and wounded by the edges of the granite, the sap has begun to exude from the fissures, and the strength of the plant is exhausted! Limited in the allotment of soil for her nutriment, her sap unnaturally expanded, her strength overtasked, Picciola must die, unless prompt relief can be afforded! Her doom is sealed! One only resource remains. By removing the stones that weigh upon her roots, the plant may yet be preserved. But how to effect this, without an implement to assist her efforts? Rushing towards the postern and knocking vehemently, the Count summons Ludovico to his aid. But although on the jailer’s arrival the explanation of the disaster and the sight of his expiring god-daughter overwhelm him with sorrow, no other answer can be obtained by Charney to his entreaties that the pavement may instantly be removed, than “_Eccellenza_, the thing is impossible!” Without hesitation, the Count attempted to conciliate the jailer’s acquiescence by the offer no longer of the gilt goblet of his dressing-case, but the whole casket. But Ludovico, assuming his most imposing attitude, folded his arms upon his breast, exclaiming, in his half-provincial, half-Piedmontese dialect, “_Bagasse, bagasse!_ Ludovico is too old a soldier to submit to bribery. I know my orders. I know my duty. It is to the captain-commandant you must address yourself.” “No,” cried Charney. “Rather would I tear up the stones with my hands, even were my bleeding nails sacrificed in the attempt!”