“Son, be prudent,” he said; “we are in the midst of treachery; in this unhappy city none know in whom they can confide.”

“I think we are sure of Enrico,” said the Donna Florinda, though the very doubts she affected not to feel lingered in the tones of her voice.

“It matters not, daughter.  He is ignorant of the presence of Don Camillo, and in that we are safe.  Duke of Sant’ Agata, if you can deliver us from these toils we will accompany you.”

A cry of joy was near bursting from the lips of Violetta; but obedient to the eye of the monk, she turned to her lover, as if to learn his decision.  The expression of Don Camillo’s face was the pledge of his assent.  Without speaking, he wrote hastily, with a pencil, a few words on the envelope of a letter, and inclosing a piece of coin in its folds, he moved with a cautious step to the balcony.  A signal was given, and all awaited in breathless silence the answer.  Presently they heard the wash of the water caused by the movement of a gondola beneath the window.  Stepping forward again, Don Camillo dropped the paper with such precision that he distinctly heard the fall of the coin in the bottom of the boat.  The gondolier scarce raised his eyes to the balcony, but commencing an air much used on the canals, he swept onward, like one whose duty called for no haste.

“That has succeeded!” said Don Camillo, when he heard the song of Gino.  “In an hour my agent will have secured the felucca, and all now depends on our own means of quitting the palace unobserved.  My people will await us shortly, and perhaps ’twould be well to trust openly to our speed in gaining the Adriatic.”

“There is a solemn and necessary duty to perform,” observed the monk; “daughters, withdraw to your rooms, and occupy yourselves with the preparation necessary for your flight, which may readily be made to appear as intended to meet the Senate’s pleasure.  In a few minutes I shall summon you hither again.”

Wondering, but obedient, the females withdrew.  The Carmelite then made a brief but clear explanation of his intention.  Don Camillo listened eagerly, and when the other had done speaking they retired together into the oratory.  Fifteen minutes had not passed, before the monk reappeared, alone, and touched the bell which communicated with the closet of Violetta.  Donna Florinda and her pupil were quickly in the room.

“Prepare thy mind for the confessional,” said the priest, placing himself with grave dignity in that chair which he habitually used when listening to the self-accusations and failings of his spiritual child.

The brow of Violetta paled and flushed again, as if there lay a heavy sin on her conscience.  She turned an imploring look on her maternal monitor, in whose mild features she met an encouraging smile, and then with a beating heart, though ill-collected for the solemn duty, but with a decision that the occasion required, she knelt on the cushion at the feet of the monk.