trust in me, founded on the fallacious promises of her
seducer.

The true Venetian character of the girl struck me even more than her
beauty. Her courage, frank indignation, and the nobility of her aspect
made me resolve not to abandon her. I could not doubt that she had told a
true tale, as my brother continued to observe a guilty silence.

I watched her silently for some time, and, my mind being made up, said,--

"I promise to send you back to Venice with a respectable woman to look
after you; but you will be unfortunate if you carry back with you the
results of your amours."

"What results? Did I not tell you that we were going to be married at
Geneva?"

"Yes, but in spite of that . . ."

"I understand you, sir, but I am quite at ease on that point, as I am
happy to say that I did not yield to any of the wretch's desires."

"Remember," said the abbe, in a plaintive voice, "the oath you took to be
mine for ever. You swore it upon the crucifix."

So saying he got up and approached her with a supplicating gesture, but
as soon as he was within reach she gave him a good hearty box on the ear.
I expected to see a fight, in which I should not have interfered, but
nothing of the kind. The humble abbe gently turned away to the window,
and casting his eyes to heaven began to weep.

"You are too malicious, my dear," I said; "the poor devil is only unhappy
because you have made him in love with you."

"If he is it's his own fault, I should never have thought of him but for
his coming to me and fooling me, I shall never forgive him till he is out
of my sight. That's not the first blow I have given him; I had to begin
at Padua."

"Yes," said the abbe, "but you are excommunicated, for I am a priest."

"It's little I care for the excommunication of a scoundrel like you, and
if you say another word I will give you some more."

"Calm yourself, my child," said I; "you have cause to be angry, but you
should not beat him. Take up your things and follow me."

"Where are you going to take her?" said the foolish priest.

"To my own house, and I should advise you to hold your tongue. Here, take
these twenty sequins and buy yourself some clean clothes and linen, and
give those rags of yours to the beggars. I will come and talk to you
to-morrow, and you may thank your stars that you found me here. As for
you, mademoiselle, I will have you conducted to my lodging, for Genoa
must not see you in my company after arriving here wi