This Cavaliere Aquamorta--he had the Order of the Golden Spur from his Holiness--was a tall spare man of a striking, if truculent, presence, with a high forehead, prominent eyebrows, densely black, cheekbones like razors, a complexion of walnut, and burning dark eyes. He carried his head high, and punctuated his vivacious utterances with snorts and free expectoration. He was, as I had seen at once, very much overdressed; his jabot was too full, he had three watches, ring-laden fingers, not unduly clean, and no less than five snuff-boxes, which he used in turn. He had certain delicate perceptions, however, which I must do him the justice to record; for if he was overdressed, I (God knows) was not, and yet not one glance of his penetrating eyes was turned in my direction which was not of deference and amiability. He treated me in every respect as if I had been his equal in appearance, address and fortune. His gallantry to Virginia would have been, I thought, excessive if displayed to any woman in the world. Before we had gone a league he had hold of her hand, to illustrate a story he was telling us of an intrigue he had had with the Princess of Schaffhausen. "I took her Highness' hand--thus," says he, and took my wife's. "'Madame,' I said, 'upon the honour of Aquamorta, the affair, having gone so far, must go all lengths. Logic and love alike demand it.'" The story was long; by the end of it, it was to be seen that he still held Virginia's hand. Indeed, he held it more or less until we stopped at Empoli to dine; and when we returned to the carriage, if I may be believed, this knight of the Spur resumed possession, and (as if it had been a plaything) nursed, flourished, flirted, made raps with my wife's hand until we were near the end of the day and within a few miles of the frontier of Lucca. Then at last he released it, kissing it first--popped his head out of the window, looked about and started, gave a prodigious Ha! cleared his throat, spat twice, and sat down again.