Violante was in a state of blissful excitement; she could not analyze her own joy. But her conversation was chiefly with Leonard; and the most silent of all was Harley. He sat listening to Leonard's warm, yet unpretending eloquence--that eloquence which flows so naturally from genius, when thoroughly at its ease, and not chilled back on itself by hard, unsympathizing hearers--listened, yet more charmed, to the sentiments less profound, yet no less earnest--sentiments so feminine, yet so noble, with which Violante's fresh virgin heart responded to the poet's kindling soul. Those sentiments of hers were so unlike all he heard in the common world--so akin to himself in his gone youth! Occasionally--at some high thought of her own, or some lofty line from Italian song, that she cited with lighted eyes and in melodious accents--occasionally he reared his knightly head, and his lips quivered, as if he had heard the sound of a trumpet. The inertness of long years was shaken. The Heroic, that lay deep beneath all the humors of his temperament, was reached, appealed to; and stirred within him, rousing up all the bright associations connected with it, and long dormant. When he rose to take leave, surprised at the lateness of the hour, Harley said, in a tone that bespoke the sincerity of the compliment, "I thank you for the happiest hours I have known for years." His eye dwelt on Violante as he spoke. But timidity returned to her with his words--at his look; and it was no longer the inspired muse, but the bashful girl that stood before him. "And when shall I see you again?" asked Riccabocca disconsolately, following his guest to the door. "When? Why, of course, to-morrow. Adieu! my friend. No wonder you have borne your exile so patiently,--with such a child!" He took Leonard's arm, and walked with him to the inn where he had left his horse. Leonard spoke of Violante with enthusiasm. Harley was silent. CHAPTER III. The next day a somewhat old-fashioned, but exceedingly patrician, equipage stopped at Riccabocca's garden-gate. Giacomo, who, from a bedroom window, had caught sight of it winding towards the house, was seized with undefinable terror when he beheld it pause before their walls and heard the shrill summons at the portal. He rushed into his master's presence, and implored him not to stir--not to allow any one to give ingress to the enemies the machine might disgorge. "I have heard," said he, "how a town in Italy--I think it was Bologna--was once taken and given to the sword, by incautiously admitting a wooden horse, full of the troops of Barbarossa, and all manner of bombs and Congreve rockets." "The story is differently told in Virgil," quoth Riccabocca, peeping out of the window. "Nevertheless, the machine looks very large and suspicious; unloose Pompey." "Father," said Violante, coloring, "it is your friend, Lord L'Estrange; I hear his voice." "Are you sure?" "Quite. How can I be mistaken?"