The dinner was not such a gloomy affair as it had promised to be, although only three of the company of five expected were present--the Duke, Hera, and Colonel Rosario. The hearty old soldier marvelled at the absence of the bridegroom-elect, but Don Riccardo asked him how Tarsis could go on being the richest man in Italy if he did not put business before dinner. It was an explanation that did not satisfy the Colonel, but he accepted it with a laugh and the comment, “Italy is no longer a country; it is a machine for making money.” Donna Beatrice had sent word that she would have a bowl of broth above stairs. It was well for her feelings she was not there to witness the good spirits that prevailed at the board. Don Riccardo called for one of the precious bottles of Lacrimae Christi put in the cellar by his grandfather. The Colonel gave the toast “To the wedding to-morrow,” but the Duke secretly drank to Hera’s narrow escape. The dinner ended, and the Colonel gone to his barracks, Hera, alone with her father in a corner of the reception hall where the piano stood, ran over, in a resurge of sweet memory, the ballad of the vintage Mario gave that night. She remembered it all, and sang as one whose soul overflowed with joy. For hours, awaiting the answer from Rome--the answer their hearts had already given--they sat together in the great old room, where portraits, one above the other, dimmed by time, covered the walls. The wings of the broad, mullioned casements, beneath their transoms of stained glass, stood ajar to the breath of spring, and the mysterious night lispings of the new-born season toned the silence at times, foretelling long sunny days, roses, and music in the woods. Hera was first to hear the clatter of hoofs, and she rose, keen for the tidings. A footman entered with a message from the Castel-Minore bureau of telegraphs. She held it under a light, read it first with puzzled countenance, and again with clearer, too certain understanding. Her father saw her catch her breath and press a hand to her side. “What is it?” he asked, and she handed him the message. “Justice gives him first claim,” he read. “Let justice be your guide.” He asked her what it meant, but she stood as one turned to stone. “God!” exclaimed Don Riccardo. “He gives you up--puts justice before love! That is the meaning. Bah! Then you are well rid of him, my daughter. The bloodless reasoner! Ah, lovers did not so in my day. Indeed it is an age of machine-made men.”