be about to murder him as he sleeps. At last, close to him, she bends over his sleeping face. Her hand is on his forehead. Lower and lower bends her head. Awake, awake! But there is no fear. She has but kissed him. A soft, noiseless kiss.
As she moves a few steps from him, her eyes still on his face, her arm is touched.
“Signora!”
“Thou, Gubetta!”
“I fear for thee. Venice may guard thy life, but she cannot save thee from insult.”
What does this mysterious woman think as her head droops? Truly she should be insulted, all breathing men and women, and small children even, abhor her name. Yet she was not born to such a fate. But the past, the past, who shall recall the past. And then the vision of an aged man, clad in a robe falling to the ground in heavy folds, comes before her, and she trembles. As she looks on the sleeper, she asks herself how long was it since she had slept so peacefully?
“Thou gazest upon the youth, Signora. Vainly have I sought to learn the reason of thy secret journey from Ferrara here to Venice—perhaps this youth.”
“Thou seek to read my acts—thou! Leave me.”
The man—a fair-looking man enough—bowed, and with quiet, measured steps withdrew.
Then she came back to the sleeping man.
“How beautiful he is,” she thought. Never in her dreams had she imagined him so beautiful. She almost cried with rapture as she looked on him. Was this love? Yes. Guilty love? Nay; wait and read. Should she wake him? No.
She removed her mask to wipe away her tears (fallen to good purpose—as nearly all tears fall), and in those few moments her face was seen—not by the youth upon the marble seat, but by the scowling eyes of a tall, haughty-looking man, glaring from a treacherous gondola, which had quietly stolen up, under cover of the night, and there lay still below the terrace. Beside him stood a mean-looking creature whom he called Rustighello. “It is she!”
“Truly, Signor.”
“And the youth, who is he?”
“A poor adventurer, without parents or country; people say he is brave.”
“What will not people say, good Rustighello? Try every art to lure him to Ferrara, and to me—”
“There is no need for art. By chance, he will set out with Gruirani for Ferrara.”
Slowly the gondola stole away with its watching secret.
“Sleep, sleep, poor youth, and good dreams wait on you. For me are naught but sleepless nights and bitter watching.” She stooped again to kiss him. He woke.
“Heavens! whom do I see?”
“I pray thee let me go!”
“Nay, nay, fair lady. On my faith—”
“Again I do implore thee, let me pass.”
“Nay, but a moment to admire thee, for I feel thou’rt beautiful. Oh! be not afraid, I will not harm thee.”
“Surely not, Gennaro.”
“What! thou knowest me?”
“And thou couldst love me!”
“Who could not love the owner of so sweet a voice?”
“And thou couldst love me, Gennaro?”
“Surely, but not so dearly as I love one other I could name.”
“And she—and she?”
“Is my mother.”
“Thy mother! Oh my Gennaro, thou dost love her?” And she trembles greatly, this unknown woman.
“I love her as I love my life.”
“And thinkst thou she loves thee?”
“Alas! I never saw her.”
“And yet thou lovest her?”
“It is a wretched tale which I do hide from all; but ah! to thee it seems that I must tell it; for in thy face I read thou hast a noble soul.”
“A noble soul!”
“I thought myself the son of a poor fisherman, with whom I spent my early years. But one day came a noble stranger; he gave me money, a splendid steed, bright arms, and, best of all, a paper. It was my mother—it was my mother who had written it. The victim of a mighty man, she feared for both our lives, and so would hide herself from me. She bade me never seek her name; and to this hour never have I sought to learn it.”
“And this paper!”
“See here!” and he took it from the bosom of his dress; “it never leaveth me.”
“Perchance, Gennaro, she wept when she wrote it!”
“And have not I wept, too, my mother—O my mother! But methinks I see tears on thy face, lady.”
“Ah! yes, I weep for thee—for her.”
“For me! for her! Indeed, I think already that I love thee dearly.”
“Oh! ever love thy mother, youth; cling to her with all thy soul. Never think ill of her when thou dost doubt most strongly; think ever how she loves thee, and pity her, and hope that she may one day press thee to her heart.”
“Ah! lady, no need hast thou to teach me this! I see her near me always—gentle, loving, pure; she is my guardian angel. When I would do ill, she comes upon me in my dreams, and smiles a welcome to me.”
“I hear footsteps, I must leave thee.”
“Why shouldst thou tremble?”
’Twas Orsini and the friends coming to seek for Gennaro. The youth Maffio, seeing a lady near his friend, ran gaily forward to them; but within a few paces, and just as the lady was rising her mask to her face, he saw her—saw her, to start and turn pale, brave as he was; saw her, to call on Heaven, and ask himself her name.
He ran back to his companions, uttered but two words, and each man was amazed. One laid his hand upon the spot where his dagger would have been, but that at fêtes all arms were rendered at the door. Another placed his hand upon his mouth and gazed in horror.
“Gennaro,” whispered the unknown lady, “I must leave thee.”
“Yet deign to tell who thou art?”
“One whose life is loving thee.”
“Thy name!”
“I will reveal it,” cried Orsini, coming forward, and speaking savagely, unmercifully.
As the woman heard these words, and recognized the voice, she flinched, and strove to run from the place.
But they stopped her; each way she made a step, on each side stood a stern, unyielding man. They stood about her, yet not near her.
“Gennaro, Gennaro; help!”
“Signors!” cried the youth, “what wouldst thou? This lady I protect; he that insults her is my friend no longer.”
“We would wish to tell the lady who we are, and tell thee who she is,” cried they earnestly, and yet with something of mockery in their tones, “then she may go; we shall have no wish to keep her with us.”
“I, for one, am that Maffio Orsini, whose brother you murdered as he slept.”
“And I, I am that man whose aged uncle you destroyed on his threshold.”
“While I, fair lady, am the nephew of one who died quaffing your wine.”
“I, Petruci, O lady, am cousin to him whose dominions you stole.”
“And