It was–it must be–yes, that long, dark hair and those lovely features belonged only to Stella! The old man bowed down his head and wept. Nearer, nearer, and now all fear was gone, for the bold swimmer still showed an unfailing strength and energy. But his face was unknown. None had seen it before. Yet Borelloni knew it–well he knew it. The same face had appeared amid the death struggle, the dust and wild prancing of maddened horses on the Casino. And now Mario touched the land. And now he bore his senseless burden through the crowd to her father's arms.

"O take her Mario, to the house–carry her there, or else she dies."

But Mario laid her down at her father's feet, upon the grass, and voicelessly, nervelessly fell down beside her. They carried them both to the villa. They cared for them, and soon Mario opened his eyes and asked eagerly for Stella.

"She is saved, and well. She is with her father."

"Saved? then I am happy."

He arose, and all dripping as he was, left the house, in spite of the eagerness of the attendants.

"No," he said, "my home is nearby, and why should I remain here? I will go. Leave me."

And he arose and left the house.

"Where is the saviour of my child?" said Borelloni, on the following morning.

"Gone?" said his attendants.

"Gone? Fools! Why did you send him away thus?"

"He would not stay, your excellency. He said his home was nearby."

"Then go, I tell you, and search the country far and wide, and bring him to me."

After their departure, the baron remained in deep thought for a long time.

"Strange," muttered he, "passing strange, how this painter seems to be my genius. A good genius too–near in moments of peril. How he looked as his face rose above the waves, while he bore my daughter to the shore. Yet how can I give her to him? I cannot."

The attendants returned at evening. Their search was unsuccessful. But one said that a tall, noble–looking man had departed in the diligence for Florence at early dawn.

"'Tis well," exclaimed Borelloni.

"I fear to meet him. Better is it that he should go."

Summer with its heat had passed away, and mild September had now come, when Florence again becomes delightful. The villa at Thrasymene was now forsaken, and the palace of Borelloni at Florence again was all joyous and thronged with people as of yore. Again the carriage of the count rolled along the Lung' Arno, and he received the salutations of his friends. Stella was lovely as before, but in her face there was a more pensive expression than usual, a sadness that was not customary. For she had not seen him whom she adored–the brave youth who had twice esteemed his own life as nothing, in order to snatch her from death. And what could move her father if this could not? He was more thoughtful than before, and never spoke of that scene. He had never even offered to express his gratitude to her deliverer. Yet that evening she was again to go to the gardens of Boboli and meet her lover. Her heart bounded with joy at the anticipation of coming happiness; and the moments seemed like hours, as they slowly, slowly passed away.

Again the beautiful gardens were arrayed in loveliness, and beneath the solemn shade of the lofty trees Mario again sat beside his Stella. They could hardly speak their hearts were full.

"And so you were long by Thrasymene and never came to me, Mario," she at length said.

"I would not do so. It was enough for me to be near and watch you."

"But not enough for me," she cried, with tears in her eyes.

"O Mario! I am doubly yours, for you have twice saved me from death."

"Speak not of that," he said.

"I must soon know my fate. My picture is nearly finished. In two days it will hang in yonder palace," said he, pointing to the Palazzo Pitti.

"For–what do you think–the Grand Duke has visited my studio, and told me to bring it there."

"The Grand Duke! Was he pleased with it?"

"He praised it in unmeasured terms."

"I knew so, Mario."

Blissful was the interview, and sad were the lovers to separate. But they had to depart, and soon Stella was at home. Mario, filled with pleasing hope, looked at the beauty of the scene, and went out for a walk. He wandered toward the southern gate, and went out up a long avenue, where trees overhanging formed a long and shadowy archway. It was a still and peaceful walk at evening. He sat down at length behind the trunk of one of the trees, and fell into a reverie. Soon he was roused by the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked down the road, and saw two men stealthily approaching, armed, and conversing earnestly in low tones. They stopped not more than two yards from him and sat down. Mario could not be seen on account of his concealed position.

"Federigo," said one, "this is bad business."

"What!" said the other’s bad business?"

"I mean not bad, but dangerous. Now if it were only to take a few piastres, I would not care; but to kill a man, coldly and without provocation, is rather bad."

"But we get two hundred, you know?"

"Ah, there you are right. They will jingle pleasantly, will they not?"

The sound of a horse's steps was heard coming down the road. The men crept into concealment and were silent. Mario also preserved silence, and clenching his stout stick more firmly, waited the issue.

"He is coming," said one in an earnest whisper.

"It is he–Borelloni."

Mario's heart leaped within his bosom at the word. He almost determined to rush upon the villains. But it would be premature, and he would be attacked. He could save the life of Borelloni more easily by waiting. The horseman drew nearer and nearer. He was walking his horse slowly down the road. He soon came up a few yards from the spot where these men and Mario sat concealed. There he paused for a moment.

"Will he stop, or go back?" whispered one.

"No–hush!" said the other.

Borelloni came on, he came abreast of them–then one fired a pistol, and both sprang out. One seized the horse, while the other dragged the baron to the ground, crying:

"Say your prayers, old man. You must die."

"Villains!" roared a loud voice behind them, and Mario, springing out, gave one bound and felled the wretch to the earth. The other, frightened and surprised, stood in speechless astonishment. Mario rushed up to him and raised his arm to strike. The man fired. His pistol was knocked aside by Mario, and the next moment he lay senseless on the ground. Mario came to Borelloni and raised him from the ground.

"Are you hurt?" he inquired.

"Good God! Is it possible!"

"I am Mario. I thank Heaven I am here to prevent these ruffians from executing their design. Can I assist you to mount?"

He assisted the count to get on his horse again. By this time a troop of soldiers, alarmed by the pistol reports, had come to the place.

"Take those men with you," said Mario.

"They have attempted the life of Count Borelloni. And accompany the count to the city. But what–you are wounded."

"No, the bullet only grazed my head. Mario you have saved my life. I am speechless. I feel more than I can utter now."

"Do not thank me. Thank Heaven who sent me here. Good–night, my lord."

And turning, he was soon out of sight. Stella sat in her chamber that night thinking upon her interview with Mario. She lost herself in conjectures about the future–so dark, so obscure, and yet it might be–so bright and happy. The noise below told her of her father's arrival home, and she ran down to welcome him.

"My father! How late you are! But what!"

She started back in horror at the sight of his bloody forehead.

"Are you hurt? are you wounded, father?"

"I was set upon by two ruffians, and would probably have been killed, if…"

"Attacked, wounded! O Heaven! You shall not go out alone, father, you must not. You are feeble, and cannot now defend yourself."

She made him sit down, and tenderly washed his wound, and stayed the blood till the doctor came. After the wound was dressed the doctor departed and Stella spoke.

"You said you were saved, but did not tell me how, nor did you tell me his name. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him well, and have reason to know him?"

"Who is he?"

"Mario."

"Mario again? Great Heaven!"

Two days afterward Count Borelloni sat in his study, musing upon the strange occurrences of the few past months. His thoughts dwelt upon Mario, who thrice had been his benefactor.

"I cannot account for it. How intense, how absorbing, how wonderful must be his love for my daughter. He has treated my scorn with kindness. When I forbade him the house, he never came here. I admire, I reverence so lofty a spirit! Where would I be now–where would my daughter be, if Mario had not been near to save us, if he, careless of his own life, had not been our preserver? I wondered before. Twice he had come before me–a genius–a preserver of myself and my child. Now he comes again and saves me. It is wonderful! I am overcome. Pride cannot resist such greatness of soulsuch magnificent actions, and Stella adores him. I do not wonder at it. Shall I then refuse to make her happy? A few short years are all that remain of life to me. I wish to leave my child happiness as her best inheritance. I can make her happy now. I can make a return to Mario for his generous actions. I can make myself happy in the contemplation of their joy. All is over. Farewell pride. What is birth and wealth and pride, when compared to the glory of such illustrious actions?"

He sat down at his desk and wrote as follows:

"Mario, you have conquered. I have treated you with scorn and indignity. You have returned it with kindness. You have saved my own life twice, and twice have you saved the life of one for whose happiness I would die a thousand deaths. Mario, I reverence your lofty spirit. I admire such noble feeling–such bravery and generosity. Come to my home. It shall henceforth be yours also. Come to my heart, which is proud to love and honor you. Come, and Stella shall he the reward which you shall receive as the best and most priceless gift of the grateful BORELLONI."

He rose from his chair and called for Stella. She came to him speedily.

"Stella," said he, "I have at last found one to whom I can confide you, who will be your protector when I am gone. What do you say to that? You change color–you tremble."

"O father, why now? Why not wait for a time? I am young. I will not–I cannot leave you."

"You need not leave me. Your husband shall stay here; you both shall cheer my old age."

"Father, I…"

"Read this, my child."

Stella glanced at it, read it hurriedly, and in a transport of joy flung her arms about her father's neck and kissed him again and again, while the tears stood in his eyes

as he embraced his daughter.

"Yes, Stella, all is over. I bow before him and do him honour. This shall go to him, and he will come here to receive his reward."

He gave the letter to his servant, and again sat down to receive the thanks and witness the happiness of his daughter. An hour passed away, and a messenger came from the duke bearing a letter to the Count Borelloni. It was a request that in an hour he should come to the Pitti Palace.

"For," said he, "I have lately received as an accession to my paintings, a picture of such rare excellence, such exquisite beauty in conception, and wonderful skill in execution, that I set no bounds to my joy in obtaining it. Knowing your passion for art, I have sent to you this notice of its reception."

The count hastened to prepare for his departure. He wondered what was the nature of the piece of which the duke had spoken so highly.

to be continued...