"My dear count—"
"Silence, sir! No more of this!" exclaimed the noble Italian.
There was a pause, which was broken by the entrance of one of the turnkeys.
"Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that you are discharged," said that functionary.
"Discharged!" ejaculated the count: "impossible! How could I be discharged?"
The countess and Isabella surveyed the turnkey with looks of the most intense and painful anxiety.
"A stranger has sent his solicitor to pay every thing against you at the gate; and all the fees and the little donations to us and the criers are paid also."
"You are bantering me, sirrah!" cried the count. "You are mistaken. The Envoy from my native land, who alone of all my acquaintances is capable of doing an action of this generous nature, and in so delicate a manner, has been absent from London for the last ten days, and is even unaware of my situation. Who then could have paid my debts?"
A name trembled upon Isabella's tongue; but the word died upon her lips. She dared not pronounce that name—although her heart told her that her surmise was correct, and that Richard Markham was the secret friend to whom her father was indebted for his liberty. Richard! the reward of thy good deed had already commenced by the feelings which now changed the love that the beauteous girl had hitherto experienced for thee, into an adoration and a worship!
"Well, sir," said the turnkey, "we don't know who has done this, and it wasn't our business to inquire. All I can say is, that the debt is paid, the fees settled, and you may leave the place as soon as you like."