none of them noticed or cared for this. They could take especial
cognizance of the points of excellence in the duke's horses, but not
of the grief that shaded a fellow-being's countenance. No, the
single artist, who now retraced his steps from the base of the
Campanile, let his cause for sadness arise from whatever source it
might, was alone in his sufferings, and without any one to share his
sorrows.

Once or twice he seemed to hesitate and half turn round again, as if
to join the party he had left; but some inward prompting appeared to
prevent him from doing so, and once more he walked on by the same
street which he had just came. A sigh now and then heaved his
breast, as though some mental or physical suffering moved him, but
his form was erect, and his step not that of one weakened by
physical disease. And yet in looking upon him, an instinctive desire
would have possessed the careful observer to offer him aid in some
form.






CHAPTER II.

OUR HERO AND HEROINE.