mute. The bark came nearer; when at length Francesca could distinguish the faces on board, she exclaimed, "Tito!" as she perceived a young man. She stood up, and remained standing at the risk of being drowned. "Tito! Tito!" cried she, waving her handkerchief. Tito desired the boatmen to slacken, and the two boats pulled side by side. The Italian and Tito talked with such extreme rapidity, and in a dialect unfamiliar to a man who hardly knew even the Italian of books, that Rodolphe could neither hear nor guess the drift of this conversation. But Tito's handsome face, Francesca's familiarity, and Gina's expression of delight, all aggrieved him. And indeed no lover can help being ill pleased at finding himself neglected for another, whoever he may be. Tito tossed a little leather bag to Gina, full of gold no doubt, and a packet of letters to Francesca, who began to read them, with a farewell wave of the hand to Tito. "Get quickly back to Gersau," she said to the boatmen, "I will not let my poor Emilio pine ten minutes longer than he need." "What has happened?" asked Rodolphe, as he saw Francesca finish reading the last letter. "_La liberta_!" she exclaimed, with an artist's enthusiasm. "_E denaro_!" added Gina, like an echo, for she had found her tongue. "Yes," said Francesca, "no more poverty! For more than eleven months have I been working, and I was beginning to be tired of it. I am certainly not a literary woman." "Who is this Tito?" asked Rodolphe. "The Secretary of State to the financial department of the humble shop of the Colonnas, in other words, the son of our _ragionato_. Poor boy! he could not come by the Saint-Gothard, nor by the Mont-Cenis, nor by the Simplon; he came by sea, by Marseilles, and had to cross France. Well, in three weeks we shall be at Geneva, and living at our ease. Come, Rodolphe," she added, seeing sadness overspread the Parisian's face, "is not the Lake of Geneva quite as good as the Lake of Lucerne?" "But allow me to bestow a regret on the Bergmanns' delightful house," said Rodolphe, pointing to the little promontory. "Come and dine with us to add to your associations, _povero mio_," said she. "This is a great day; we are out of danger. My mother writes that within a year there will be an amnesty. Oh! _la cara patria_!" These three words made Gina weep. "Another winter here," said she, "and I should have been dead!"