he studied privacy of
her life, her known destiny, and the jealousy of the despotic state, and
perhaps the deep respect which encircled a maiden of her tender years
and high condition, had, until that moment, kept the aspiring, the vain,
and the interested, equally in awe.

"It is for me!" whispered the trembling, the distressed, the delighted
Violetta.

"It is for one of us, indeed," answered the cautious friend.

"Be it for whom it may, it is bold," rejoined the monk.

Donna Violetta shrank from observation behind the drapery of the window,
but she raised a hand in pleasure as the rich strains rolled through the
wide apartments.

"What a taste rules the band!" she half-whispered, afraid to trust her
voice lest a sound should escape her ears. "They touch an air of
Petrarch's sonatas! How indiscreet, and yet how noble!"

"More noble than wise," said the Donna Florinda, who entered the balcony
and looked intently on the water beneath.

"Here are musicians in the color of a noble in one gondola," she
continued, "and a single cavalier in another."

"Hath he no servitor? Doth he ply the oar himself?"

"Truly that decency hath not been overlooked; one in a flowered jacket
guides the boat."

"Speak, then, dearest Florinda, I pray thee."

"Would it be seemly?"

"Indeed I think it. Speak them fair. Say that I am the Senate's--that it
is not discreet to urge a daughter of the state thus--say what thou
wilt--but speak them fair."

"Ha! it is Don Camillo Monforte! I know him by his noble stature and
the gallant wave of his hand."

"This temerity will undo him! His claim will be refused--himself
banished. Is it not near the hour when the gondola of the police passes?
Admonish him to depart, good Florinda--and yet can we use this rudeness
to a Signor of his rank!"

"Father, counsel us; you know the hazards of this rash gallantry in the
Neapolitan--aid us with thy wisdom, for there is not a moment to lose."

The Carmelite had been an attentive and an indulgent observer of the
emotion which sensations so novel had awakened in the ardent but
unpractised breast of the fair Venetian. Pity, sorrow, and sympathy,
were painted on his mortified face, as he witnessed the mastery of
feeling over a mind so guileless, and a heart so warm; but the look was
rather that of one who knew the dangers of the passions, than of one who
condemned them without thought of their origin or power. At the appeal
of the governess he turned a