There is a point when dreaming gets the mastery and appears infinitely more real than the things we touch.
Nino, meanwhile, had descended the steps, expecting every moment to meet the count.

As he went down the street a closed carriage drove by with the Lira liveries.

The old count was in it, but Nino stepped into the shadow of a doorway to let the equipage pass, and was not seen.
The wooden face of the old nobleman almost betrayed something akin to emotion.

He was returning from the funeral, and it had pained him; for he had liked the wild baroness in a fatherly, reproving way.

But the sight of him sent a home thrust to Nino's heart.
"Her death is on my soul for ever," he muttered between his set teeth.
Poor innocent boy, it was not his fault if she had loved him so much.
Women have done things for great singers that they have not done for martyrs or heroes.