A footstep was heard upon the gravel. The dogs shut up in the cave scratched furiously, then barked loudly. Following the footsteps a bareheaded peasant appeared, his red shirt open, showing his sunburnt chest. He ran up to the open door, a letter in his hand. Seeing Enrica sitting on the low wall, he stopped and made her a rustic bow.
"Who are you?" Enrica asked, her heart beating wildly.
"Illustrissima," and the man bowed again, "I am Giacomo—Giacomo protected by his reverence Fra Pacifico. You have heard of Giacomo?"
Enrica shook her head impatiently.
"Surely you are the Signorina Enrica?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then this letter is for you." And Giacomo stepped up and gave it into her outstretched hand. "I was to tell the illustrissima that the letter had come express from Lucca to Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico could not bring it down himself, because the wife of the baker Pietro is ill, and he is nursing her."
Enrica took the letter, then stared at Giacomo so fixedly, before he turned to go, it haunted him many days after, for fear the signorina had given him the evil-eye.
Enrica held the letter in her hand. She gazed at it (standing on the spot where she had taken it, midway between the door and the low wall, a glint of sunshine striking upon her hair, turning it to threads of gold) in silent ecstasy. It was Nobili's first letter to her. His name was in the corner, his monogram on the seal. The letter came to her in her loneliness like Nobili's visible presence. Ah! who does not recall the rapture of a first love-letter!—the tangible assurance it brings that our lover is still our own—the hungry eye that runs over every line traced by that dear hand—the oft-repeated words his voice has spoken stamped on the page—the hidden sense—the half-dropped sentences—all echoing within us as note to note in chords of music!
Enrica's eyes wandered over the address, "To the Noble Signorina Enrica Guinigi, Corellia," as if each word had been some wonder. She dwelt upon every crooked line and twist, each tail and flourish, that Nobili's hand had traced. She pressed the letter to her lips, then laid it upon her lap and gazed at it, eking out every second of suspense to its utmost limit. Suddenly a burning curiosity possessed her to know when he would come. With a gasp that almost stopped her breath she tore the cover open. The paper shook so violently in her unsteady hand that the lines seemed to run up and down and dance. She could distinguish nothing. She pressed her hand to her forehead, steadied herself, then read: