Del Ferice was a very obstinate and a very intelligent man.

He meant more than ever to marry Donna Tullia himself, and he would not be hindered in the accomplishment of his object by an insignificant scruple.
He was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort should retard the healing of his throat; but in the long days and nights, when he lay silent in his quiet lodging, he had ample time to revolve many schemes in his brain.

At last he no longer needed the care of the Sister of Mercy; his servant took charge of him, and the surgeon came twice a-day to dress his wound.

He lay in bed one morning watching Temistocle, who moved noiselessly about the room.
"Temistocle," he said, "you are a youth of intelligence: you must use the gifts nature has given you." Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty years of age.
He had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one eye that gave him a singularly unpleasant expression.

As his master addressed him, he stood still and listened with a sort of distorted smile in acknowledgment of the compliment made him.
"Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d'Astrardente means to leave Rome, and where she is going.