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��THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
��of it indelibly in their minds. The walls were in places discolored by smoke, and they read some Latin and Italian lines, roughly cut in the stone. Some were pious sentences, others re- publican couplets ; verses from Dante, breathing love in every word, mingled with the words of Brutus. A few attracted their attention, and cast a cloud over their happiness.
" God alone is great ! " said one line. While Marcel was lost in thought before this line, which seemed like an aerolite from heaven, Lucrecia trem- bled while reading a maxim of Jean Paul Richter's.
•' Do you believe that the rock of Saint Marin is :he smallest of repub- lics? There is a smaller one still, where liberty reigns, and you carry it with you, if you have no heart."
They walked slowly and thoughtfully down the mountainside, butthe sun was too bright and their hearts too full of love to remain sad for long, and before they reached the bottom they had re- gained their happiness.
Should they return to Capellani's villa? or should they go farther? They did not know, and did not care. Their souls flew on tireless wings in the ether of happiness, and beside the warm hours of the day had passed ; the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the shadows lengthened across the little lakes whose surfaces were gilded by the last soft rays. They followed the road, stopping now and then to pick a flower or a pome- granate, to gather a cluster of tempt- ing grapes, or explore some dark nook. What vows of faith and fidelity ! What sweet kisses under wide spread- ing boughs !
"What a day ! what a day ! " they often exclaimed. Joy overflowed in their hearts, and they would have made all the world happy had they the power. Toward evening, after the angelus, they stopped for a moment in a little village to watch the crowd coming out of a church, singing the last lines of a chant, and dispersing in all .directions.
��Soon the groups disappeared, and all was quiet. It was the hour of twilight, neither day nor night ; the sun, which had disappeared behind the mountains, left the clouds in great billowy masses of gold and scarlet ; but the moon was rising, and the last glimmer of day scarcely struggled against its rays.
They approached the little church and looked curiously around. Under the porch there were tombs, and mechanically they read the inscrip- tions.
Guiseppe Veraci.
Thirty years of age.
He lived a life of love.
" What a beautiful epitaph ! " said Lucrecia.
" But who wrote it? " replied Marcel, sadly. " Guiseppe's betrothed, per- haps? "
He added, in an agitated voice, " Ah ! Lucrecia, does death then sep- arate lovers like you and me ? I pray heaven I may never have to write your epitaph ! "
Lucrecia shuddered, and looking at Marcel with loving eyes, replied :
" What does it matter if you can write ' she lived a life of love ! ' "
Night had now fallen and they felt fatigued, but were ignorant of their whereabouts. They went on, and finally came to a poor little inn, where they asked for supper, and were served with one which their sharp appetites alone rendered palatable. Often, afterward, they recalled this supper, eaten so merrily in this village inn. They said a thousand absurd things ; sat long at the table, continually repeat- ing, " what a day ! what a day ! "
During the next two years their cup of joy was filled to the brim. They lived at Florence and at Pistoja ; lived a life such as is vouchsafed to few mor- tals — a life devoted to love.
Whenever she returned to Pistoja, her admirers hurried to see her. They loved her so much that they did not dare regret, seeing her so happy, that she had fallen from the pedestal where
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