diately invited me to dine with him on the following day; but I hastily declined upon plea of my early departure.
After a little more conversation, he bowed and wished me good morning.
"I am sorry that my pictures are all in Rome," said he, as he turned away. "There are none in the house yonder," he continued, pointing toward it through the cypresses, "of any interest to those out of the family."
So saying, the Marquis di Sangrido disappeared down the terraces.
But I remained in the solitary, sunny garden, remembering the black-shrouded picture, looking along the paths that Maddalena had paced. The tragedy of Maddalena was wringing my heart, but the sun shone bright, the nightingales sang, the wind blew gently, and the courteous tones of the Marquis were ringing in my cars.
"God forgive us all our sins! I said as I recalled the words of the padrone; and I passed swiftly and for ever out of the garden and the gate of the Palazzo Sangrido.
