“And are females of thy class permitted to make friends among those who may become dearer at any other day?” asked Violetta.

“Lady, we have that much freedom even in the prisons.”

“Then art thou happier than those of the palaces!  I will trust thee, generous girl, for thou canst not be unfaithful to the weakness and wrongs of thy sex.”

Gelsomina raised a hand, as if to stop the impetuous confidence of her guest, and then she listened intently.

“Few enter here,” she said; “but there are many ways of learning secrets within these walls which are still unknown to me.  Come deeper into the rooms, noble ladies, for here is a place that I have reason to think is safe, even from listeners.”

The keeper’s daughter led the way into the little room in which she was accustomed to converse with Jacopo.

“You were saying, lady, that I had a feeling for the weakness and helplessness of our sex, and surely you did me justice.”

Violetta had leisure to reflect an instant, in passing from one room to the other, and she began her communications with more reserve.  But the sensitive interest that a being of the gentle nature and secluded habits of Gelsomina took in her narrative, won upon her own natural frankness, and, in a manner nearly imperceptible to herself, she made the keeper’s daughter mistress of most of the circumstances under which she had entered the prison.

The cheek of Gelsomina became colorless as she listened and when Donna Violetta ceased, every limb of her slight frame trembled with interest.

“The Senate is a fearful power to resist!” she said, speaking so low as hardly to be audible.  “Have you reflected, lady, on the chances of what you do?”

“If I have not, it is now too late to change my intentions, I am the wife of the Duke of Sant’ Agata, and can never wed another.”

“Gesu!  This is true.  And yet, methinks, I would choose to die a nun rather than offend the council!”

“Thou knowest not, good girl, to what courage the heart of even a young wife is equal.  Thou art still bound to thy father, in the instruction and habits of childhood, but thou mayest live to know that all thy hopes will centre in another.”

Gelsomina ceased to tremble, and her mild eye brightened.

“The council is terrible,” she answered, “but it must be more terrible to desert one to whom you have vowed duty and love at the altar!”

“Hast thou the means of concealing us, kind girl,” interrupted Donna Florinda, “and canst thou, when this tumult shall be quieted, in any manner help us to further secresy or flight?”

“Lady, I have none.  Even the streets and squares of Venice are nearly strangers to me.  Santissima Maria! what would I give to know the ways of the town as well as my cousin Annina, who passes at will from her father’s shop to the Lido, and from St. Mark’s to the Rialto, as her pleasure suits.  I will send for my cousin, who will counsel us in this fearful strait!”