While speaking, the noble touched the handle of his sword significantly with a finger, and cast a look at the half petrified Annina, which effectually controlled the exclamation that was about to escape her.  The monk appeared to understand the terms of this silent compact, for with a deep voice he commenced the offices of the mass.  The singularity of their situation, the important results of the act in which they were engaged, the impressive dignity of the Carmelite, and the imminent hazard which they all ran of exposure, together with the certainty of punishment for their daring to thwart the will of Venice, if betrayed, caused a deeper feeling than that which usually pervades a marriage ceremony, to preside at nuptials thus celebrated.  The youthful Violetta trembled at every intonation of the solemn voice of the monk, and towards the close she leaned in helplessness on the arm of the man to whom she had just plighted her vows.  The eye of the Carmelite kindled as he proceeded with the office, however; and long ere he had done, he had obtained such a command over the feelings of even Annina as to hold her mercenary spirit in awe.  The final union was pronounced, and the benediction given.

“Maria, of pure memory, watch over thy happiness, daughter!” said the monk, for the first time in his life saluting the fair brow of the weeping bride.  “Duke of Sant’ Agata, may thy patron hear thy prayers, as thou provest kind to this innocent and confiding child!”

“Amen!—­Ha!—­we are not too soon united, my Violetta; I hear the sound of oars.”

A glance from the balcony assured him of the truth of his words, and rendered it apparent that it had now become necessary to take the most decided step of all.  A six-oared gondola, of a size suited to endure the waves of the Adriatic at that mild season, and with a pavilion of fit dimensions, stopped at the water-gate of the palace.

“I wonder at this boldness!” exclaimed Don Camillo.  “There must be no delay, lest some spy of the Republic apprise the police.  Away, dearest Violetta—­away, Donna Florinda!  Father, away!”

The governess and her charge passed swiftly into the inner rooms.  In a minute they returned bearing the caskets of Donna Violetta, and a sufficient supply of necessaries for a short voyage.  The instant they reappeared, all was ready; for Don Camillo had long held himself prepared for this decisive moment, and the self-denying Carmelite had little need of superfluities.  It was no moment for unnecessary explanation or trivial objections.

“Our hope is in celerity,” said Don Camillo.  “Secresy is impossible.”

He was still speaking, when the monk led the way from the room.  Donna Florinda and the half-breathless Violetta followed; Don Camillo drew the arm of Annina under his own, and in a low voice bid her, at her peril, refuse to obey.

The long suite of outer rooms was passed without meeting a single observer of the extraordinary movement.  But when the fugitive entered the great hall that communicated with the principal stairs, they found themselves in the centre of a dozen menials of both sexes.