“Very well,” sighed he, as she finished, “it must be as you say. I'll see Zanetti, for I cannot afford to die just yet. That 'Greek question' will have no solution without me,—no one has the key of it but myself. That Panslavic scheme, too, in the Principalities attracts no notice but mine; and as to Spain, the policy I have devised for that country requires all the watchfulness I can bestow on it. No, Princess,”—here he gave a melancholy sigh,—“we must not die at this moment. There are just four men in Europe; I doubt if she could get on with three.”
“What proportion do you admit as to the other sex?” said she, laughing.
“I only know of one, madame;” and he kissed her hand with gallantry. “And now for Florence, if you will.”
It is by no means improbable that our readers have a right to an apology at our hands for the habit we have indulged of lingering along with the two individuals whose sayings and doings are not directly essential to our tale; but is not the story of every-day life our guarantee that incidents and people cross and re-cross the path we are going, attracting our attention, engaging our sympathy, enlisting our energies, even in our most anxious periods? Such is the world; and we cannot venture out of reality. Besides this, we are disposed to think that the moral of a tale is often more effectively conveyed by the characters than by the catastrophe of a story. The strange, discordant tones of the human heart, blending, with melody the purest, sounds of passionate meaning, are in themselves more powerful lessons than all the records of rewarded virtue and all the calendars of punished vice. The nature of a single man can be far more instructive than the history of every accident that befalls him.
It is, then, with regret that we leave the Princess and Sir Horace to pursue their journey alone. We confess a liking for their society, and would often as soon loiter in the by-paths that they follow as journey in the more recognized high-road of our true story. Not having the conviction that our sympathy is shared by our readers, we again return to the fortunes of Glencore.
When Lord Glencore's carriage underwent the usual scrutiny exercised towards travellers at the gate of Florence, and prying officials poked their lanterns in every quarter, in all the security of their “caste,” two foot travellers were rudely pushed aside to await the time till the pretentious equipage passed on. They were foreigners, and their effects, which they carried in knapsacks, required examination.
“We have come a long way on foot to-day,” said the younger in a tone that indicated nothing of one asking a favor. “Can't we have this search made at once?”
“Whisht! whisht!” whispered his companion, in English; “wait till the Prince moves on, and be polite with them all.”
“I am seeking for nothing in the shape of compliment,” said the other; “there is no reason why, because I am on foot, I must be detained for this man.”
Again the other remonstrated, and suggested patience.