“Well and good,” cried Ludovico, with a cordial smile; “no need, I see, of a master of the ceremonies between you; the acquaintance has been quickly made;” and away he went, leaving them to the enjoyment of each other’s society. “To whom are we indebted, I wonder, for this happy meeting?” was Charney’s first exclamation. “To my daughter—doubtless to my daughter,” replied Girardi. “Every consolation of my life reaches me through the hands of my Teresa.” “Do you know this handwriting?” inquired Charney, drawing from his casket the slip of paper he so dearly treasured. “It is Teresa’s!” cried Girardi; “it is the writing of my child! She has not neglected us; nor have her promises been tardy in their accomplishment. But how did this letter reach your hands?” The Count related all the circumstances, then carelessly put forth his hand to receive back the slip of paper; but, perceiving that the poor old man silently detained it, perusing it word by word, letter by letter, and raising it a thousand times, with trembling hands, to his lips, he saw that the pledge was lost to him for ever; and experienced a regret at the loss, which appeared almost unbearable. After the first moments passed in conjectures, concerning Teresa and the spot where she was likely to have taken refuge, Girardi began to examine the lodgings of his new friend; and gravely proceeded to decipher the inscriptions on the wall. Two among them had been already modified; and the old man could readily discern, in this recantation, the influence exercised by Picciola over her votary. One of the maxims of Charney ran as follows: “Mankind maintain, upon the surface of the earth, the position they will one day hold below it—side by side, without a single bond of union. Physically considered, the world is a mob, where millions meet and jostle together: morally speaking, it is a solitary wilderness.” [Illustration] To this withering sentence, the hand of Girardi added, “_Unless to him who has a friend_.” Then, turning to his young companion, the old man extended his arms towards him, and a mutual embrace sealed between them a compact of eternal friendship. Next day, they dined together in the _camera_ of the Count—Charney seated upon the bed, and his venerable guest upon the chair—the sculptured table between them being covered with double rations, viz.: a fine trout from the lake of Avigliano, crayfish from the Cenise, a bottle of excellent Mondovi wine, and a piece of the celebrated Millesimo cheese, known over Italy under the name of _rubiola_. The feast was a noble one for a prison; but Girardi’s purse was richly replenished, and the commandant willing to sanction every accommodation which Ludovico could afford to the two prisoners, within the letter of his instructions from headquarters.