, these women, these
women! if they but knew their power! If they but knew how all the
boldest strivings of our intellects are as nothing compared to what
their beauty can effect! Well, well; it is better that they should not.
They are tyrants, even as it is,--petty tyrants,--to all who care
for them; and he who does not is their master. _That_ is the real
power,--there the stronghold; and how they fear the man who takes
his stand behind it! how they crouch and tremble before him! what
fascinating graces do they reserve for _him_, that they would not bestow
upon a lover! Is it that they only love where they fear? How beautiful
she looks, and how calmly sweet!--it is the sleeping tigress,
notwithstanding. And now to awake her: pity, too; that wearied mind
wants repose, and the future gives but little promise of it."

[Illustration: 411]

He bent down over her, till he almost touched the silken masses of her
long dark hair, and, in a low, soft voice, said,--

"Maritana! Maritana!"

"No, no, no," said she, in the low, muttering accents of sleep, "not
here,--not here!"

"And why not here, dearest?" said he, catching at the words.

A faint shudder passed over her, and she gathered her shawl more closely
around her.

"Hace mal tiempo,--the weather looks gloomy," said she, in a faint
voice.

"And if not here, Maritana, where then?" said he, in a low tone.

"In our own deep forests, beneath the liana and the cedar; where the
mimosa blossoms, and the acacia scents the air; where fountains are
springing, and the glow-worm shines like a star in the dark grass. Oh,
not here! not here!" cried she, plaintively.

"Then in Italy, Maritana mia, where all that the tropics can boast
is blended with whatever is beautiful. In art; where genius goes
hand-in-hand with nature; and where life floats calmly on, like some
smooth-flowing river, unruffled and unbroken."

A faint, low sigh escaped her, and her lips parted with a smile of
surpassing loveliness.

"Yes, dearest--there, with me, beside the blue waters of the Adriatic,
or lost amid the chestnut forests of the Apennines. Think of those
glorious cities, too, where the once great still live, enshrined by
memory, in their own palace walls. Think of Venice--"

The word was not well uttered, when, with a shrill scream, she started
up and awoke.

"Who spoke to me of my shame? Who spoke of Venice?" cried she, in
accents of wild terror.

"Be calm, Maritana. It was a dream,--n