He sent back a civil answer to the invitation; and a little after eleven, descended the stairway which led from his chamber to the Count's apartments, looking very pale and worn, but very handsome. For he was, in truth, a man whose personal appearance took all eyes. The apartments of the Count were immediately below Moratti's own chamber, and on entering, he saw the old knight himself reclining in a large chair. He was alone, except for a hound which lay stretched out on the hearth, its muzzle between its forepaws, and a dining-table set for three was close to his elbow. Bernabo of Pieve received his guest with a stately courtesy, asking pardon for being unable to rise, as he was crippled. "They clipped my wings at Arx Sismundea, captain--before your time; but of a truth I am a glad man to see you strong again. It was a narrow affair." "I cannot thank you in words, Count; you and your house have placed a debt on me I can never repay." "Tush, man! There must be no talk of thanks. If there are to be any, they are due to the leech, and to Felicità, my daughter. She is all I have left, for my son was killed at Santa Croce." "I was there, Count." "And knew him?" "Alas, no. I was on the side of Spain." "With the besieged, and he with the League. He was killed on the breach--poor lad." At this moment a curtain at the side of the room was lifted, and Felicità entered. She greeted Moratti warmly, and with a faint flush on her cheeks, inquired after his health, hoping he was quite strong again. "So well, Madonna, that I must hurry on my journey to-morrow." "To-morrow!" Her large eyes opened wide in astonishment, and there was a pain in her look. "Why," she continued, "it will be a fortnight ere you can sit in the saddle again." "It might have been never, but for you," he answered gravely, and her eyes met his, and fell. At this moment the steward announced that the table was ready; and by the time the repast was ended, Moratti had forgotten his good resolutions for instant departure, and had promised to stay for at least a week, at the urgent intercession of both the Count and his daughter. He knew he was wrong in doing so, and that, whatever happened, it was his duty to go at once; but he hesitated with himself. He would give himself one week of happiness, for it was happiness to be near her, and then--he would go away forever. And she would never know, in her innocence and purity, that Guido Moratti, bravo--he shuddered at the infamous word--loved her better than all the world beside, and that for her sake he had become a new man.