he action discovered the
figure of the shrinking Gelsomina, who had entered the cell, favored by
the keepers, and concealed by the robes of the Carmelite. Jacopo groaned
when he beheld her form, and turning away, he leaned against the wall.

"Daughter, why art thou here--and who art thou?" demanded the monk.

"'Tis the child of the principal keeper," said Jacopo, perceiving that
she was unable to answer, "one known to me, in my frequent adventures in
this prison."

The eye of Father Anselmo wandered from one to the other. At first its
expression was severe, and then, as it saw each countenance in turn, it
became less unkind, until it softened at the exhibition of their mutual
agony.

"This comes of human passions!" he said, in a tone between consolation
and reproof. "Such are ever the fruits of crime."

"Father," said Jacopo, with earnestness, "I may deserve the word; but
the angels in Heaven are scarce purer than this weeping girl!"

"I rejoice to hear it. I will believe thee, unfortunate man, and glad am
I that thy soul is relieved from the sin of having corrupted one so
youthful."

The bosom of the prisoner heaved, while Gelsomina shuddered.

"Why hast thou yielded to the weakness of nature, and entered the cell?"
asked the good Carmelite, endeavoring to throw into his eye a reproof,
that the pathos and kindness of his tones contradicted. "Didst thou know
the character of the man thou loved?"

"Immaculate Maria!" exclaimed the girl--"no--no--no--no!"

"And now that thou hast learned the truth, surely thou art no longer the
victim of wayward fancies!"

The gaze of Gelsomina was bewildered, but anguish prevailed over all
other expression. She bowed her head, partly in shame, but more in
sorrow, without answering.

"I know not, children, what end this interview can answer," continued
the monk. "I am sent hither to receive the last confession of a Bravo,
and surely, one who has so much cause to condemn the deception he has
practised, would not wish to hear the details of such a life?"

"No--no--no--" murmured Gelsomina again, enforcing her words with a wild
gesture of the hand.

"It is better, father, that she should believe me all that her fancy can
imagine as monstrous," said Jacopo, in a thick voice: "she will then
learn to hate my memory."

Gelsomina did not speak, but the negative gesture was repeated
franticly.

"The heart of the poor child hath been sorely touched," said the
Carmelite, with co