The Prince, raising her gently, mingled his tears with hers, as he affectionately embraced her. Orazio, touched to the depths of his soul, was also affected, and taking the Prince's sword by the point, handed it back to him, saying, "So noble a soldier ought not to be deprived, even by accident, of his weapon." The Prince accepted it with gratitude, and shook the bronzed hand of this son of the forest amicably. And Clelia! what had made her rush away from this charming scene? what had she heard amid the noise of the conflict? She had recognized the voice of her Attilio during the assault, and for her and him too this was a supreme moment. Yes, during the battle, when the shouts of the new-comers made the arches of the castle ring again, Clelia distinguished her betrothed's voice. She threw down a gun which she was loading, and rushed to a balcony, whence she could survey the scene of action. For one second, through the smoke, she obtained a view of the face engraven upon her heart, but that second was sufficient to make her feel surpassingly happy. Attilio, indeed, it was, who, with Silvio, Muzio, and some other companions, had thus charged and scattered the Papal troops. Silvio, it must be known, was well acquainted with the castle of Lucullus, where he had often been a guest, as well as the associate of Orazio in his hunting and fighting expeditions. Through him a communication was kept up between the Liberals in the city and those in the country. Before quitting Rome he had come to the determination of taking the field, and placing himself under Orazio's flag, and, as we have seen, he happily arrived with his associates just in time to give the last blow to the Papal soldiers. The gentle reader must himself imagine the joy in the castle caused by the arrival of friends who could contribute so powerfully to the safety of the proscribed--what interrogations! what embracings! what inquiries after parents, relatives, and friends! what new and happy hopes! what soft illusions, dreams of peace and rest! "Oh, my own, my own!" whispered Clelia, when Attilio for the first time imprinted a kiss upon her beautiful brow, "thou art mine and I am thine, in spite of the wicked priests, in spite of the world." The smell of the gunpowder had perhaps turned her dear little head, so that we may pass over the slight indiscretion of such confessions. She should have been more coquettish, but she was a Roman girl, and her love was true. And is not true love sublime, heroic, such as these two happy beings bore to one another? Is it not the life of the soul, the incentive of all that is noble, the civilizer of the human race?