e of the noblest families of Venice, which
was a very different thing from murdering a man of low degree whose
life the law took little note of.

So the Prince had to flee from Venice, and he took up his residence in
a narrow street in an obscure part of Florence.

Seldom had fate played a man so scurvy a trick, and the Prince was
fully justified in his cursing, for the unfortunate episode had
interrupted a most absorbing amour which, at that moment, was rapidly
approaching an interesting climax.

Prince Padema had been several weeks in Florence, and those weeks had
been deadly dull. "The women of Florence," he said to himself bitterly,
"are not to be compared with those of Venice." But even if they had
been, the necessity of keeping quiet, for a time at least, would have
prevented the Prince from taking advantage of his enforced sojourn in
the fair city.

On this particular evening, the Prince's sombre meditations were
interrupted by a song. The song apparently came from the same building
in which his suite of rooms were situated, and from an open window some
distance below him. What caught his attention was the fact that the
song was Venetian, and the voice that sang it was the rich mellow voice
of Venice.

There were other exiles, then, beside himself. He peered over the edge
of the balcony perched like an eagle's nest high above the narrow stone
street, and endeavoured to locate the open window from which the song
came, or, better still, to catch a glimpse of the singer.

For a time he was unsuccessful, but at last his patience was rewarded.
On a balcony to the right, and some distance below his own, there
appeared the most beautiful girl even he had ever seen. The dark, oval
face was so distinctly Venetian that he almost persuaded himself he had
met her in his native town.

She stood with her hands on the top rail of the balcony, her dark hair
tumbled in rich confusion over her shapely shoulders. The golden light
in the evening sky touched her face with glory, as she looked towards
it, of that part of it that could be seen at the end of the narrow
street.

The Prince's heart beat high as he gazed upon the face that was
unconscious of his scrutiny. Instantly the thought flashed over him
that exile in Florence might, after all, have its compensations.

"Pietro," he whispered softly through his own open windows to the
servant who was moving silently about the room, "come here for a
moment, quietly."

The