A puff of wind from the open door for an instant raised the smoke and sparks; in that instant Adamo sees a dark heap lying on the floor close to the door. It is the marchesa. "Is she dead or alive?" He cannot stop to tell. He raises her. She lay within his arms. Her dark dress, though not consumed, strikes hot against his chest. Not an instant is to be lost. The fresh rush of air up the stairs has fanned the flames. Every moment they are rising higher. They redden on the dark rafters of the ceiling. The sparks fly about in dazzling clouds.

Adamo is on the threshold. Outside it is now so dark that, spite of danger, he has to pause and feel his way downward, or he might dash his precious burden against the walls. In that pause a piercing cry from above strikes upon his ear, but in the crackling of the increasing flames and a fresh torrent of smoke and burning sparks that burst out from the room, Adamo's brain--always of the dullest--is deadened. He forgets that cry. All his thought is to save his mistress. Even Pipa and Angelo and little Gigi are forgotten.

Ere he reaches the level of the first story, the alarm-bell over his head clangs out a goodly peal. A bound of joy within his honest heart gives him fresh courage.

"It is the Madonna! When I touched her image, I knew that she would help me. Pipa has heard me. Pipa has pulled the bell. She is safe! And Angelo--and little Gigi, safe! safe! Brave Pipa! How I love her!"

Before a watch could tick twenty seconds, and while Adamo's foot was still on the last round of the winding stair, the church-bells of Corellia clash out in answer to the alarm-bell.

Now Adamo has reached the outer door. He stands beneath the stars. His face and hands are black, his hair is singed; his woolen clothes are hot and burn upon him. The cool night air makes his skin smart with pain. Already Pipa's arms are round him. Angelo, too, has caught him by the legs, then leaps into the air with a wild hoot. Bewildered Pipa cannot speak. No more can Adamo; but Pipa's clinging arms say more than words. Tenderly Adamo lays the marchesa down beside the fountain.

He totters on a step or two, feeling suddenly giddy and strangely weak. He stands still. The strain had been too much for the simple soul, who led a quiet life with Pipa and the children. Tears rise in his big black eyes. Greatly ashamed, and wondering what has come to him, he sinks upon the ground. Pipa, watching him, again flings her arms about him; but Adamo gave her a glance so fierce, as he points to the marchesa lying helpless upon the ground, it sent her quickly from him. With a smothered sob Pipa turns away to help her.

(Ah! cruel Pipa, and is your heart so full that you have forgotten Enrica, left helpless in the tower?--Yet so it was. Enrica is forgotten. Cruel, cruel Pipa! And stupid Adamo, whose head turns round so fast he must hold on by a tree not to fall again.)

Silvestro and Fra Pacifico now rushed out of the darkness; Fra Pacifico aroused out of his first sleep. He had not seen the marchesa since her arrival. He did not know whether Enrica had come with her from Lucca or not. Seeing Pipa busy about the fountain, the women, thought Fra Pacifico, were safe; so Fra Pacifico strode off on his strong legs to see what could be done to quench the fire, and save, if possible, the more combustible villa. Surely the villa must be consumed! The smoke now darkened the heavens. The flames belted the thick tower-walls as with a burning girdle. Showers of sparks and flames rose out from each aperture with sudden bursts, revealing every detail on the gray old walls; moss and lichen, a trail of ivy that had forced itself upward, long gra.s.s that floated in the hot air; a crevice under the battlements where a bird had built its nest. Then a swirl of smoke swooped down and smothered all, while overhead the mighty company of constellations looked calmly down in their cold brightness!

A crowd of men now came running down from Corellia, roused by the church-bells. Pietro, the baker, still hard at work, was the first to hear the bell, to dash into the street, and shout, "Help! help! Fire!

fire! At the villa!"

Oreste and Pilade heard him. They came tumbling out. Ser Giacomo roused the sindaco--who in his turn woke his clerk; but when Mr.

Sindaco was fairly off down the hill, this much-injured and very weary youth turned back and went to bed.

Some bore lighted torches, others copper buckets. Pietro, the butcher, brought the munic.i.p.al ladder. These men promptly formed a line down the hill, to carry the water from the willful mountain-stream that fed the town fountain. Fra Pacifico took the lead. (He had heard the alarm, and had rung the church-bells himself.) No one cared for the marchesa; but a burning house was a fine sight, and where Fra Pacifico went all Corellia followed. Adamo, recovered now, was soon upon the ladder, receiving the buckets from below. Pipa beside the fountain watched the marchesa, sprinkling water on her face. "Surely her eyelids faintly quiver!" thinks Pipa.--Pipa watched the marchesa speechless--watched her as birth and death are only watched!

The marchesa's eyes had quivered; now they slowly unclose. Pipa, who, next to the Virgin and the saints, worshiped her mistress--laughed wildly--sobbed--then laughed again--kissed her hand, her forehead--then pressed her in her arms. Supported by Pipa, the marchesa sat up--she turned, and then she saw the mountains of smoke bursting from the tower, forming into great clouds that rose over the tree-tops, and shut out the stars. The marchesa glanced quickly round with her keen, black eyes--she glanced as one searching for some thing she cannot find; then her lips parted, and one word fell faintly from them: "Enrica!"

Pipa caught the half-uttered name, she echoed it with a scream.

"Ahi! The signorina! The Signorina Enrica!"

Pipa shouted to Adamo on the ladder.

"Adamo! Adamo! where is the signorina?"

Adamo's heart sank at her voice. On the instant he recalled that cry he had heard upon the stairs.

"Where did you see her last?" Adamo shouted back to Pipa out of the din--his big stupid eyes looking down upon her face. "Up-stairs?"

Pipa nodded. She could not speak, it was too horrible.

"Santo Dio! I did not know it!" He struck upon his breast. "a.s.sa.s.sin!

I have killed her! a.s.sa.s.sin! Beast! what have I done?"

Again the air rang with Pipa's shrill cries. The Corellia men, who with eager hands pa.s.s the buckets down the hill, stop, and stare, and wonder. Fra Pacifico, who had eyes and ears for every one, turned, and ran forward to where Pipa sat wringing her hands upon the ground, the marchesa leaning against her.

"Is Enrica in the tower?" asked Fra Pacifico.

"Yes, yes!" the marchesa answered feebly. "You must save her!"

"Then follow me!" shouted the priest, swinging his strong arms above his head.

Adamo leaped from the ladder. Others--they were among the very poorest--stepped out and joined him and the priest; but at the very entrance they were met and buffeted by such a gust of fiery wind, such sparks and choking smoke, that they all fell back aghast. Fra Pacifico alone stood unmoved, his tall, burly figure dark against the glare. At this instant a man wrapped in a cloak rushed out of the wood, crossed the red circle reflected from the fire, and dashed into the archway.

"Stop him! stop him!" shouted Adamo from behind.

"You go to certain death!" cried Fra Pacifico, laying his hand upon him.

"I am prepared to die," the other answered, and pushed by him.

Twice he essayed to mount the stairs. Twice he was driven back before them all. See! He has covered his head with his cloak. He has set his foot firmly upon the stone steps. Up, up he mounts--now he is gone!

Without there was a breathless silence. "Who is he?--Can he save her?"--Words were not spoken, but every eye asked this question. The men without are brave, ready to face danger in dark alley--by stream or river--or on the mountain-side. Danger is pastime to them, but each one feels in his own heart he is glad not to go. Fra Pacifico stands motionless, a sad stern look upon his swarthy face. For the first time in his life he has not been foremost in danger!

By this time, Fra Pacifico thinks, unless choked, the stranger must be near the upper story.

The marchesa has now risen. She stands upright, her eyes riveted on the tower. She knows there is a door that opens from the top of the winding stair, on the highest story, next Enrica's room, a door out on the battlements. Will the stranger see it? O G.o.d! will he see it?--or is the smoke too thick?--or has he fainted ere he reached so high?--or, if he has reached her, is Enrica dead? How heavy the moments pa.s.s--weighted with life or death! Look, look! Surely something moves between the turrets of the tower! Yes, something moves. It rises--a m.u.f.fled form between the turrets--the figure of a man wrapped in a cloak--on the near side out of the smoke and flames.

Yes--it is the stranger--Enrica in his arms! All is clearly seen, cut as it were against a crimson background. A shout rises from every living man--a deep, full shout as out of bursting hearts that vent themselves. Out of the shout the words ring out--"The steps!--the steps!--There--to the right--cut in the battlements! The steps!--the steps!--close by the flagstaff! Pa.s.s the steps down to the lower roof of the villa" (The wind set on the other side, drawing the fire that way. The villa was not touched.)

The stranger heard and bowed his head. He has found the steps--he has reached the lower roof of the villa--he is safe!

No one below had moved. The hands by which the water was pa.s.sed were now laid upon the ladder. It was shifted over to the other side against the villa walls. Adamo and Fra Pacifico stand upon the lower rungs, to steady it. The stranger throws his cloak below, the better to descend.

"Who is he?" That strong, well-knit frame, those square shoulders, that curly chestnut hair, the pleasant smile upon his glowing face, proclaim him. It is Count n.o.bili! He has lands along the Serchio, between Barga and Corellia, and was well known as a keen sportsman.

"Bravo! bravo! Evviva! Count n.o.bili--evviva!" Caps were tossed into the air, hands were wildly clapped, friendly arms are stretched out to bear him up when he descends. Adamo is wildly excited; Adamo wants to mount the ladder to help. The others pull him back. Fra Pacifico stands ready to receive Enrica, a baffled look on his face. It is the first time Fra Pacifico has stood by and seen another do his work.

See, Count n.o.bili is on the ladder, Enrica in his arms! As his feet touch the ground, again the people shout: "Bravo! Count n.o.bili!

Evviva!" Their hot southern blood is roused by the sight of such n.o.ble daring. The people press upon him--they fold him in their arms--they kiss his hands, his cheeks, even his very feet.

n.o.bili's eyes flash. He, too, forgets all else, and, with a glance that thrills Enrica from head to foot, he kisses her before them all.

The men circle round him. They shout louder than before.

As the crowd parted, the dark figure of the marchesa, standing near the fountain, was disclosed. Before she had time to stir, Count n.o.bili had led Enrica to her. He knelt upon the ground, and, kissing Enrica's hand, placed it within her own. Then he rose, and, with that grace natural to him, bowed and stood aside, waiting for her to speak.

The marchesa neither moved nor did she speak. When she felt the warm touch of Enrica's hand within her own, it seemed to rouse her. She drew her toward her and kissed her with more love than she had ever shown before.

"I thank you, Count n.o.bili," she said, in a strange, cold voice. Even at that moment she could not bring herself to look him in the face.

"You have saved my niece's life."

"Madame," replied n.o.bili, his sweet-toned voice trembling, "I have saved my own. Had Enrica perished, I should not have lived."

In these few words the chivalric nature of the man spoke out. The marchesa waved her hand. She was stately even now. n.o.bili understood her gesture, and, stung to the very soul, he drew back.

"Permit me," he said, haughtily, before he turned away, "to add my help to those who are laboring to save your house."

The marchesa bowed her head in acquiescence; then, with unsteady steps, she moved backward and seated herself upon the ground.

Pipa, meanwhile, had flung her arms about Enrica, with such an energy that she pinned her to the spot. Pipa pressed her hands about Enrica, feeling every limb; Pipa turned Enrica's white face up ward to the blaze; she stroked her long, fair hair that fell like a mantle round her.

"Blessed Mother!" she sobbed, drawing her coa.r.s.e fingers through the matted curls, "not a hair singed! Oh, the n.o.ble count! Oh, how I love him--"