ome, even in such fantastic guise. Or perhaps one of those quaint
figures, in the stately ruff, the cloak, tunic, and trunk-hose of three
centuries ago, might bring him tidings of Hilda, out of that long-past
age. At times his disquietude took a hopeful aspect; and he fancied that
Hilda might come by, her own sweet self, in some shy disguise which the
instinct Of his love would be sure to penetrate. Or, she might be
borne past on a triumphal car, like the one just now approaching, its
slow-moving wheels encircled and spoked with foliage, and drawn by
horses, that were harnessed and wreathed with flowers. Being, at best,
so far beyond the bounds of reasonable conjecture, he might anticipate
the wildest event, or find either his hopes or fears disappointed in
what appeared most probable.

The old Englishman and his daughters, in the opposite balcony, must have
seen something unutterably absurd in the sculptor's deportment, poring
into this whirlpool of nonsense so earnestly, in quest of what was to
make his life dark or bright. Earnest people, who try to get a reality
out of human existence, are necessarily absurd in the view of the
revellers and masqueraders. At all events, after a good deal of mirth at
the expense of his melancholy visage, the fair occupants of the balcony
favored Kenyon with a salvo of confetti, which came rattling about him
like a hailstorm. Looking up instinctively, he was surprised to see
the abbate in the background lean forward and give a courteous sign of
recognition.

It was the same old priest with whom he had seen Hilda, at the
confessional; the same with whom he had talked of her disappearance on
meeting him in the street.

Yet, whatever might be the reason, Kenyon did not now associate this
ecclesiastical personage with the idea of Hilda. His eyes lighted on the
old man, just for an instant, and then returned to the eddying throng of
the Corso, on his minute scrutiny of which depended, for aught he knew,
the sole chance of ever finding any trace of her. There was, about this
moment, a bustle on the other side of the street, the cause of which
Kenyon did not see, nor exert himself to discover. A small party of
soldiers or gendarmes appeared to be concerned in it; they were perhaps
arresting some disorderly character, who, under the influence of an
extra flask of wine, might have reeled across the mystic limitation of
carnival proprieties.

The sculptor heard some people near him talking o