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 of his majesty,—had given offence to many illustrious officers, who had perhaps done as much as the count, though none of them ever thought of making much ado about it. Upon the whole, he added, the count had more enemies than friends; and this was owing, perhaps, not less to his conspicuous valour, than to the frankness with which he was accustomed to express himself on every occasion.

At these words, the fair countess heaved a deep sigh, and her large eyes filled with tears. “So then,” said she, “envy every where pursues the steps of merit. Here too—would you believe it?—here, in his own country, jealousy and malice are busily striving to undermine my lord’s reputation.”

“Whoever has seen you,” replied Camillo, “can easily conceive that your husband must be exposed to envy.”

“Would to God it were excited by such trifles only!” ejaculated Apollonia. “No; his enemies envy him the consideration which he has acquired with the army, and the love manifested for him by his countrymen; nay, they accuse him of having sought the friendship of the King of France, in hopes of obtaining, through his influence, the supreme command of the troops—which no native is by right permitted to hold—and then subverting by force of arms the liberties of the people. Every one who is acquainted with the