“There passeth a band,” calmly observed the Donna Florinda.

“No, it is a cavalier!  There are gondoliers, servitors in his colors.”

“This is as hardy as it may be gallant,” returned the monk, who listened to the air with an evident and grave displeasure.

There was no longer any doubt but that a serenade was meant.  Though the custom was of much use, it was the first time that a similar honor had been paid beneath the window of Donna Violetta.  The 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