IN A WINTER CITY. 361
is quite a pity there is no Ariosto to celebrate
such a feat. It is very Ariosto-like. Indeed, aU
the best Italians are so. Englishmen have long
ceased to be in any manner Shakesperian; but
ItaUans remain Uke thefr poets."
The Due wandered away into the subtlest
and most discursive analysis of the Ariostian
school and of the national characteristics which
it displayed and was nurtured on; but she had
no ear to hear it.
Outwardly she sat indifferent and calm, but
her brain and her heart were in tumult with the
sweetest, loftiest, grandest pride that she had
ever known — pride without egotism, without
vanity, without a thought of self; true pride,
exultant in heroism, not the arrogant pride of
self-culture, of self-worship, of self-love,, not the
paltry pride of rank and acquisition and phy¬
sical perfection, not the pride of which aU the
while she had been half contemptuous herseK.
And then—his Ufe was safe !
Yet, had he stood before her then she must
have given him the same answer—at least, she