so terrible to the exile?" "Ah, what is it you tell me,"
cried Corinne, "have I not felt it? Is it not that which has decided my
fate?"--She regarded mournfully her room and the statues that adorned
it, then the Tiber which rolled its waves beneath her windows, and the
sky whose beauty seemed to invite her to stay. But at that moment Oswald
crossed the bridge of St Angelo on horseback, swift as lightning. "There
he is!" cried Corinne. Hardly had she uttered these words, when he was
already arrived,--she ran to meet him, and both impatient to set out
hastened to ascend the carriage. Corinne, however, took a kind farewell
of Prince Castel-Forte; but her obliging expressions were lost in the
midst of the cries of postillions, the neighing of horses, and all that
bustle of departure, sometimes sad, and sometimes intoxicating,
according to the fear or the hope which the new chances of destiny
inspire.

Book xi.

NAPLES AND THE HERMITAGE OF ST SALVADOR.

[Illustration]

Chapter i.

Oswald was proud of carrying off his conquest; he who felt himself
almost always disturbed in his enjoyments by reflections and regrets,
for once did not experience the pangs of uncertainty. It was not that he
was decided, but he did not think about it and followed the tide of
events hoping it would lead him to the object of his wishes.

They traversed the district of Albano[32], where is still shown what is
believed to be the tomb of the Horatii and the Curiatii. They passed
near the lake of Nemi and the sacred woods that surround it. It is said
that Hippolitus was resuscitated by Diana in these parts; she would not
permit horses to approach it, and by this prohibition perpetuated the
memory of her young favourite's misfortune. Thus in Italy our memory is
refreshed by History and Poetry almost at every step, and the charming
situations which recall them, soften all that is melancholy in the past,
and seem to preserve an eternal youth.

Oswald and Corinne traversed the Pontine marshes--a country at once
fertile and pestilential,--where, with all the fecundity of nature, a
single habitation is not to be found. Some sickly men change your
horses, recommending to you not to sleep in passing the marshes; for
sleep there is really the harbinger of death. The plough which some
imprudent cultivators will still sometimes guide over this fatal land,
is drawn by buffaloes, in appearance at once mean and ferocious, whilst
the most bril