“Hast thou aught new, Gelsomina?” repeated the Bravo, reading her innocent face with his searching gaze.

“Thou art fortunate in not being sooner in the prison.  I have just had a visitor.  Thou would’st not have liked to be seen, Carlo!”

“Thou knowest I have good reasons for coming masked.  I might, or I might not have disliked thy acquaintance, as he should have proved.”

“Nay, now thou judgest wrong,” returned the female, hastily—­“I had no other here but my cousin Annina.”

“Dost thou think me jealous?” said the Bravo, smiling in kindness, as he took her hand.  “Had it been thy cousin Pietro, or Michele, or Roberto, or any other youth of Venice, I should have no other dread than that of being known.”

“But it was only Annina—­my cousin Annina, whom thou hast never seen—­and I have no cousins Pietro, and Michele, and Roberto.  We are not many, Carlo.  Annina has a brother, but he never comes hither.  Indeed it is long since she has found it convenient to quit her trade to come to this dreary place.  Few children of sisters see each other so seldom as Annina and I!”

“Thou art a good girl, Gessina, and art always to be found near thy mother.  Hast thou naught in particular for my ear?”

Again the soft eyes of Gelsomina, or Gessina, as she was familiarly called, dropped to the floor; but raising them ere he could note the circumstance, she hurriedly continued the discourse.

“I fear Annina will return, or I would go with thee at once.”

“Is this cousin of thine still here, then?” asked the Bravo, with uneasiness.  “Thou knowest I would not be seen.”

“Fear not.  She cannot enter without touching that bell; for she is above with my poor bed-ridden mother.  Thou can’st go into the inner room as usual, when she comes, and listen to her idle discourse, if thou wilt; or—­but we have not time—­for Annina comes seldom, and I know not why, but she seems to love a sick room little, as she never stays many minutes with her aunt.”

“Thou would’st have said, or I might go on my errand, Gessina?”

“I would, Carlo, but I am certain we should be recalled by my impatient cousin.”

“I can wait.  I am patient when with thee, dearest Gessina.”

“Hist!—­’Tis my cousin’s step.  Thou canst go in.”

While she spoke, a small bell rang, and the Bravo withdrew into the inner room, like one accustomed to that place of retreat.  He left the door ajar—­for the darkness of the closet sufficiently concealed his person.  In the meantime Gelsomina opened the outer door for the admission of her visitor.  At the first sound of the latter’s voice, Jacopo, who had little suspected the fact from a name which was so common, recognised the artful daughter of the wine-seller.

“Thou art at thy ease, here, Gelsomina,” cried the latter, entering and throwing herself into a seat, like one fatigued.  “Thy mother is better, and thou art truly mistress of the house.”