"In that case," said the count, "all we can do to-day is to remove my sister, and let the execution proceed. Meanwhile I will go among my friends, and see what I can borrow from them."
"Alas!" said Levy, rising and looking out of the window—"alas!—we cannot remove the marchesa,—the worst is to come. Look!—you see those three men; they have a writ against her person: the moment she sets her foot out of these doors she will be arrested."
[At that date the law of /mesne process/ existed still.]
"Arrested!" exclaimed Peschiera and Frank in a breath. "I have done my best to prevent this disgrace, but in vain," said the baron, looking very wretched. "You see these English tradespeople fancy they have no hold upon foreigners. But we can get bail; she must not go to prison—"
"Prison!" echoed Frank. He hastened to Levy and drew him aside. The count seemed paralyzed by shame and grief. Throwing himself back on the sofa, he covered his face with his hands.
"My sister!" groaned the count—"daughter to a Peschiera, widow to a Di Negra!" There was something affecting in the proud woe of this grand patrician.
"What is the sum?" whispered Frank, anxious that the poor count should not overhear him; and indeed the count seemed too stunned and overwhelmed to hear anything less loud than a clap of thunder!
"We may settle all liabilities for L5,000. Nothing to Peschiera, who is enormously rich. /Entre nous/, I doubt his assurance that he is without ready money. It may be so, but—"
"Five thousand pounds! How can I raise such a sum?"
"You, my dear Hazeldean? What are you talking about? To be sure you could raise twice as much with a stroke of your pen, and throw your own debts into the bargain. But—to be so generous to an acquaintance!"