ty. Nisida was not one of the weak and timid natures that are broken
by suffering or domineered over by tyranny. Far otherwise: everything
around her had contributed towards shaping for her a calm and serene
destiny; her simple, tender soul had unfolded in an atmosphere of peace
and happiness. If she had not hitherto loved, it was the fault, not of
her coldness but of the extreme timidity shown by the inhabitants of her
island. The blind depth of respect that surrounded the old fisherman had
drawn around his daughter a barrier of esteem and submission that no one
dared to cross. By means of thrift and labour Solomon had succeeded in
creating for himself a prosperity that put the poverty of the other
fishermen to the blush. No one had asked for Nisida because no one
thought he deserved her. The only admirer who had dared to show his
passion openly was Bastiano, the most devoted and dearest friend of
Gabriel; but Bastiano did not please her. So, trusting in her beauty,
upheld by the mysterious hope that never deserts youth, she had resigned
herself to wait, like some princess who knows that her betrothed will
come from a far country.

On the day of the Assumption she had left her island for the first time
in her life, chance having chosen her among the maidens of the kingdom
vowed by their mothers to the special protection of the Virgin. But,
overwhelmed by the weight of a position so new to her, blushing and
confused under the eyes of an immense crowd, she had scarcely dared to
raise her wondering looks, and the splendours of the town had passed
before her like a dream, leaving but a vague remembrance.

When she perceived the presence of this handsome young man, so slenderly
and elegantly built, whose noble and calm demeanour contrasted with the
timidity and awkwardness of her other admirers, she felt herself inwardly
disturbed, and no doubt she would have believed that her prince had come,
if she had been unpleasantly struck by the poverty of his dress. She
had, nevertheless, allowed herself to listen to him longer than she ought
to have done, and she drew back with her bosom heavy, her cheek on fire,
and her heart rent by an ache that was both dull and sharp.

"If my father does not wish me to marry him," she said to herself,
tormented by the first remorseful feeling of her life. "I shall have
done wrong to speak to him. And yet he is so handsome!"

Then she knelt before the Virgin, who was her only confid