sed of the
natural decision and firmness of her pupil, she would not now have been
existing in the isolated condition which is so little congenial to
female habits, nor would Father Anselmo have been a monk. Both had
sacrificed inclination to what they considered to be duty, and if the
ungenial life of the governess was owing to the tranquil course of her
ordinary feelings, it is probable that its impunity was to be ascribed
to the same respectable cause. Not so with Violetta. She was ever more
ready to act than to reflect, and though, in general, the advantage
might possibly be with those of a more regulated temperament, there are
occasions that form exceptions to the rule. The present moment was one
of those turns in the chances of life, when it is always better to do
anything than to do nothing.

Donna Violetta had scarcely spoken, before her person was shadowed
beneath the arches of the Broglio. Her governess clung to her side, more
in affection than in compliance with the warnings of the monk, or with
the dictates of her own reason. A vague and romantic intention of
throwing herself at the feet of the Doge, who was a collateral
descendant of her own ancient house, had flashed across the mind of the
youthful bride, when she first fled; but no sooner had they reached the
palace, than a cry from the court acquainted them with its situation,
and consequently with the impossibility of penetrating to the interior.

"Let us retire, by the streets, to thy dwelling, my child," said Donna
Florinda, drawing her mantle about her in womanly dignity. "None will
offend females of our condition; even the Senate must, in the end,
respect our sex."

"This from thee, Florinda! Thou, who hast so often trembled for their
anger! But go, if thou wilt--I am no longer the Senate's. Don Camillo
Monforte has my duty."

Donna Florinda had no intention of disputing this point, and as the
moment had now arrived when the most energetic was likely to lead, she
quietly submitted herself to the superior decision of her pupil. The
latter took the way along the portico, keeping always within its
shadows. In passing the gateway which opened towards the sea, the
fugitives had a glimpse of what was going on in the court. The sight
quickened their steps, and they now flew, rather than ran, along the
arched passage. In a minute they were on the bridge which crosses the
canal of St. Mark, still flying with all their force. A few mariners
were looking