"The expedition to Brescia may be unfortunate," she resumed hurriedly; "I wish it had not been undertaken. At any rate, it rescues Count Ammiani from an expedition to Rome, and his slavish devotion to that priest-hating man whom he calls, or called, his Chief. At Brescia he is not outraging the head of our religion. That is a gain." "A gain for him in the next world?" said Merthyr. "I believe that Countess Anna of Lenkenstein is also a fervent Catholic; is she not?" "I trust so." "On behalf of her peace of mind, I trust so, too. In that case, she also must be a sound sleeper." "We shall have to awaken her. What excuse--what am I to say to her?" "I beg you to wait for the occasion, Countess d'Isorella. The words will come." Violetta bit her lip. She had consented to this extraordinary step in an amazement. As she contemplated it now, it seemed worse than a partial confession and an appeal to his generosity. She broke out in pity for her horses, in dread of her coachman, declaring that it was impossible for her to give him the order to drive her anywhere but home. "With your permission, countess, I will undertake to give him the order," said Merthyr. "But have you no compassion, signor Powys? and you are an Englishman! I thought that Englishmen were excessively compassionate with horses." "They have been known to kill them in the service of their friends, nevertheless." "Well!"--Violetta had recourse to the expression of her shoulders-- "and I am really to see Countess Anna?" "In my presence." "Oh! that cannot be. Pardon me; it is impossible. She will decline the scene. I say it with the utmost sincerity: I know that she will refuse." "Then, countess," Merthyr's face grew hard, "if I am not to be in your company to prompt you, allow me to instruct you beforehand." Violetta looked at him eagerly, as one looks for tidings, with an involuntary beseeching quiver of the strained eyelids. "No irony!" she said, fearing horribly that he was about to throw off the mask of irony. This desperate effort of her wits at the crisis succeeded. Merthyr, not knowing what design he had, hopeless of any definite end in tormenting the woman, and never having it in his mind merely to punish, was diverted by the exclamation to speak ironically. "You can tell Countess Anna that it is only her temporal sovereign who is attacked, and that therefore--" he could not continue. "Some affection?" he murmured, in intense grief. His manly forbearance touched her whose moral wit was too blunt to apprehend the contempt in it.