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recognised as Carlo Eisingarde. His salutation of his mother, his embrace, the mode in which he presented his companion, the haughty dignity of his manner, were all keenly marked by those who, in their scrutiny of externals, have not their equals in Europe; nor was the look which he gave, as he turned to the crowd beneath, unnoticed. It was a glance of such contemptuous insolence, that even their hatred seemed powerless to confront it. Like men who had lost the game, the mob broke up, and retired into the side streets, so that when the ceremony was ended, and the Eisingardes recrossed the piazza, scarcely a lingerer remained to watch them.

The Eisingardes had prepared a great dinner for that day. The chief authorities of the place were invited—the judges, the delegate, the military commandant, and the chief of the police—all attended, but the festivities were soon over, and it was remarked that the company broke up very early, and that, towards the street at least, the old house wore its aspect of gloom and desolation—just as it had done for years back. As the evening wore on, a messenger appeared at the