et!--the clouds drift
by, birds of passage migrate, the musician wanders singing from land to
land, finds love, and remorselessly strips off light fetters to seek
others. His child imitates the father, who had followed the example of
his, the same thing occurring back to their remotest ancestors! But
eternal justice? Will it measure the fluttering leaf by the same standard
as the firmly-rooted plant?

When Zorrillo saw Flora by the daylight, he said, kindly: "You have been
weeping?"

"Yes," she answered, fixing her eyes on the ground. He thought she was
anxious, as on a former occasion, lest his election to the office of
Eletto might prove his ruin, so he drew her towards him, exclaiming "Have
no fear, Bonita. If they choose me, and Mannsfeld comes, as he promised,
the play will end this very day. I hope, even at the twelfth hour, they
will listen to reason, and allow themselves to be guided into the right
course. If they make the young madcap Eletto--his head will be at stake,
not mine. Are you ill? How you look, child! Surely, surely you must be
suffering; you shall not go out at night to nurse sick people again!"

The words came from an anxious heart, and sounded warm and gentle. They
penetrated Florette's inmost soul, and overwhelmed with passionate
emotion she clasped his hands, kissed them, and exclaimed, softly
"Thanks, thanks, Pasquale, for your love, for all. I will never, never
forget it, whatever happens! Go, go; the drum is beating again."

Zorrillo fancied she was uttering mere feverish ravings, and begged her
to calm herself; then he left the tent, and went to the place where the
election was to be held.

As soon as Flora was alone, she threw herself on her knees before the
Madonna's picture, but knew not whether it would be right to pray that
her son might obtain an office, which had proved the ruin of so many; and
when she besought the Virgin to give her strength to leave her lover, it
seemed to her like treason to Pasquale.

Her thoughts grew confused, and she could not pray. Her mobile mind
wandered swiftly from lofty to petty things; she seized the cards to see
whether fate would unite her to Zorrillo or to Ulrich, and the red ten,
which represented herself, lay close beside the green knave, Pasquale.
She angrily threw them down, determined, in spite of the oracle, to
follow her son.

Meantime in the camp drums beat, fifes screamed shrilly, trumpets blared,
and the shouts and voices of the ass