r
in the sky sufficed them. The dark crests of the trees limited the
outlook; Casanova was reminded of the eerie garden in which, late one
evening many years before, he had awaited the coming of his mistress.

"Murano!" he whispered to himself, and trembled. Then he spoke aloud:
"On an island near Venice there is a convent garden where I last set
foot several decades ago. At night, there, the scent is just like this."

"Were you ever a monk?" asked the Marchesa, sportively.

"All but," replied Casanova with a smile, explaining, truthfully enough,
that when he was a lad of fifteen he had been given minor orders by the
archbishop of Venice, but that before attaining full manhood he had
decided to lay aside the cassock.

The Abbate mentioned that there was a nunnery close at hand, and
strongly recommended Casanova to visit the place if he had never seen
it. Olivo heartily endorsed the recommendation, singing the praises
of the picturesque old building, the situation, and the diversified
beauties of the approach.

"The Lady Abbess, Sister Serafina," continued the Abbate, "is an
extremely learned woman, a duchess by birth. She has told me--by letter,
of course, for the inmates are under a vow of perpetual silence--that
she has heard of Marcolina's erudition, and would like to meet her face
to face."

"I hope, Marcolina," said Lorenzi, speaking to her for the first time,
"that you will not attempt to imitate the noble abbess in other respects
as well as learning."

"Why should I?" rejoined Marcolina serenely. "We can maintain our
freedom without vows. Better without than with, for a vow is a form of
coercion."

Casanova was sitting next to her. He did not dare to let his foot touch
hers lightly, or to press his knee against hers. He was certain that
should she for the third time look at him with that expression of horror
and loathing, he would be driven to some act of folly. As the meal
progressed, as the number of emptied glasses grew and the conversation
waxed livelier and more general, Casanova heard, once more as from afar,
Amalia's voice.

"I have spoken to Marcolina."

"You have spoken to her?" A mad hope flamed up in him. "Calm yourself,
Casanova. We did not speak of you, but only of her and her plans for the
future. I say to you again, she will never give herself to any man."

Olivo, who had been drinking freely, suddenly rose, glass in hand, and
delivered himself of a few stumbling phrases concerning th