significant fact that his blindest worshippers,
ready as they were to compare him with every
hero that made the glory of classic Greece and
Rome, never dreamed of linking his name with
that of Brace or Bayard, Washington or La
Rochejaquelein. He was, in very truth, more
Pagan than Christian.

Giulio Colonna was a great man, a noble
man, an heroic man, after his kind; a man
of vast intellectual powers, of untiring steadfastness,
of inexhaustible energy and devotion;
but a man wholly dominated by a single idea,
and unable to recognise any but his own
arbitrary standard of right and wrong.

On the morning after Saxon's arrival at
Castletowers, the three young men went out
with their guns and dogs, and the Colonnas
were busy together in their quiet study in the
octagon turret. It was a very small room—a
mere closet—with one deep mullioned window,
overlooking a formal space of garden. A few
prints on the walls, a few books on the shelves,
a bureau, a table heaped with letters and papers,
three or four chairs, and a davenport in the
recess of the window, were all the furniture it
contained. At the davenport sat Olimpia, copying
a long list of memoranda, while her father
was busy with his morning's correspondence at
the larger table. He had received a budget of
some forty letters by that post, and was going
through them rapidly and methodically, endorsing
some for future reference, selecting others
for immediate reply, and flinging the rest into
a waste-paper basket beside his chair. When
the last was disposed of, his daughter lifted up
her head, and said:

"What news to day, padre mio?"

The Italian sighed wearily.

"None," he replied. " None of any value.
A few lines from Bertaldi; but he has nothing
new to tell. Things remain about the same in
Sicily. Garibaldi wants money. Nothing can be
done without money—nothing worth doing."

"Better to attempt nothing, than make a
useless demonstration," said Olimpia, quickly.

"Ay—far better."

"Is that all from Italy?"

"All."

"And from London? I thought I saw Lord
Barmouth's handwriting."

"Yes—he sends a cheque for twelve pounds;
and here are three or four others, and a
subscription from Birmingham—not twenty-five
pounds in all!"

Olimpia rose, and laid her hand lovingly upon
her father's shoulder.

"Do not be discouraged, padre mio," she
said. "The movement is as yet scarcely begun,
and our friends have not realised the importance
of the crisis. The English, we must
remember, are not roused to enthusiasm by a
few words. When we have proved to them
that our people are in earnest, they will help us
with hearts and hands."

"And in the mean while, our volunteers are
to be slaughtered like sheep, for want of proper
weapons!" replied Colonna, bitterly. "No,
Olimpia, it is now that we need funds—now,
when the struggle is scarcely begun, and the
work lies all before us. There can be no real
discipline without arms, food, and clothing;
and without discipline, all the valour in the
world is of no avail. What can weaponless
men do to prove themselves in earnest?"

"Die," said she, with kindling cheek and eye.

"Yes—we can all do that; but we prefer to
do it with something better than a pike or a
scythe in our hands."

Saying this, he pushed back his chair, and
began walking gloomily up and down the narrow
space between the window and the door. He
came presently to a sudden halt, looked full into
his daughter's eyes, and said:

"We want twenty-five thousand pounds, at
the very least, before ten more days have passed
over our heads."

"So much as that? Alas! it is impossible."

"I am not sure that it is impossible," said
Colonna, still looking at her.

"No? what do you mean?"

"Sit down, my child—here, by my side—and
I will tell you."

She sat down, and he took her hand between
both of his own. Perhaps her heart throbbed
for a moment in some vague apprehension of
what might next be said; but neither her face
nor her hand betrayed emotion.

"There is a young man in this house," said
the Italian, "to whom such a sum as twenty-
five thousand pounds would be of less importance
than a handful of bajocchi to one of our
volunteers."

"Mr. Trefalden?"

"Mr. Trefalden. He is worth four or five
millions."

"Yes—I remember. We were talking of it
at breakfast, a few weeks ago."

"We were; and I promised myself at the
time that I would move heaven and earth to
gain him over to the cause."

"It will not be difficult."

"In the ordinary degree, not at all; but we
must do more than that."

"It is hopeless to dream that he will give us
twenty-five thousand pounds," said Miss
Colonna, hastily.

"I mean him to give us a million.'

"A million! Are you mad?"

"I mean him to give us a million—two millions
—three millions—all he possesses, if less than
all will not suffice to set our Italy free! Listen,
Olimpia mia—we have been told the strange
story of this young man's life. We know how
pure, and pastoral, and unworldly it has been.
We find him simple and enthusiastic as a child—
his heart open to every generous impression—
his soul susceptible to every sense of beauty.
To such a nature all high things are possible,
with such a nature, all that we desire may be
done. I look upon this youth as the destined
liberator—as the destined sacrifice!"

Olimpia sighed, and shook her head.

"If he were Italian," she said, "it would
be easy—and justifiable."