By the aid of the same light the governess succeeded in tracing pencil-marks, in a hand that had been well known to her younger days.

“Save thyself, Florinda—­There is not an instant to lose.  Avoid public places, and seek a shelter quickly.”

“But whither?” asked the bewildered woman, when she had read aloud the scroll.

“Anywhere but here,” rejoined Donna Violetta; “follow me.”

Nature frequently more than supplies the advantages of training and experience, by her own gifts.  Had Donna Florinda been possessed of the natural decision and firmness of her pupil, she would not now have been existing in the isolated condition which is so little congenial to female habits, nor would Father Anselmo have been a monk.  Both had sacrificed inclination to what they considered to be duty, and if the ungenial life of the governess was owing to the tranquil course of her ordinary feelings, it is probable that its impunity was to be ascribed to the same respectable cause.  Not so with Violetta.  She was ever more ready to act than to reflect, and though, in general, the advantage might possibly be with those of a more regulated temperament, there are occasions that form exceptions to the rule.  The present moment was one of those turns in the chances of life, when it is always better to do anything than to do nothing.

Donna Violetta had scarcely spoken, before her person was shadowed beneath the arches of the Broglio.  Her governess clung to her side, more in affection than in compliance with the warnings of the monk, or with the dictates of her own reason.  A vague and romantic intention of throwing herself at the feet of the Doge, who was a collateral descendant of her own ancient house, had flashed across the mind of the youthful bride, when she first fled; but no sooner had they reached the palace, than a cry from the court acquainted them with its situation, and consequently with the impossibility of penetrating to the interior.

“Let us retire, by the streets, to thy dwelling, my child,” said Donna Florinda, drawing her mantle about her in womanly dignity.  “None will offend females of our condition; even the Senate must, in the end, respect our sex.”

“This from thee, Florinda!  Thou, who hast so often trembled for their anger!  But go, if thou wilt—­I am no longer the Senate’s.  Don Camillo Monforte has my duty.”

Donna Florinda had no intention of disputing this point, and as the moment had now arrived when the most energetic was likely to lead, she quietly submitted herself to the superior decision of her pupil.  The latter took the way along the portico, keeping always within its shadows.  In passing the gateway which opened towards the sea, the fugitives had a glimpse of what was going on in the court.  The sight quickened their steps, and they now flew, rather than ran, along the arched passage.  In a minute they were on the bridge which crosses the canal of St. Mark, still flying with all their force.  A few mariners were looking from their feluccas and gazing in curiosity, but the sight of two terrified females, seeking refuge from a mob, had nothing in itself likely to attract notice.