“Thy cousin!  Hast thou a cousin named Annina?”

“Lady, Annina.  My mother’s sister’s child.”

“The daughter of a wine-seller called Tomaso Torti?”

“Do the noble dames of the city take such heed of their inferiors!  This will charm my cousin, for she has great desires to be noted by the great.”

“And does thy cousin come hither?”

“Rarely, lady—­we are not of much intimacy.  I suppose Annina finds a girl, simple and uninstructed as I, unworthy of her company.  But she will not refuse to aid us in a danger like this.  I know she little loves the Republic, for we have had words on its acts, and my cousin has been bolder of speech about them, than befits one of her years, in this prison.”

“Gelsomina, thy cousin is a secret agent of the police, and unworthy of thy confidence—­”

“Lady!”

“I do not speak without reason.  Trust me, she is employed in duties that are unbecoming her sex, and unworthy of thy confidence.”

“Noble dames, I will not say anything to do displeasure to your high rank and present distress, but you should not urge me to think thus of my mother’s niece.  You have been unhappy, and you may have cause to dislike the Republic, and you are safe here—­but I do not desire to hear Annina censured.”

Both Donna Florinda and her less experienced pupil knew enough of human nature, to consider this generous incredulity as a favorable sign of the integrity of her who manifested it, and they wisely contented themselves with stipulating that Annina should on no account be made acquainted with their situation.  After this understanding, the three discussed more leisurely the prospect of the fugitives being able to quit the place, when ready, without detection.

At the suggestion of the governess, a servitor of the prison was sent out by Gelsomina, to observe the state of the square.  He was particularly charged, though in a manner to avoid suspicion, to search for a Carmelite of the order of the bare-footed friars.  On his return, the menial reported that the mob had quitted the court of the palace, and was gone to the cathedral, with the body of the fisherman who had so unexpectedly gained the prize in the regatta of the preceding day.

“Repeat your aves and go to sleep, Bella Gelsomina,” concluded the sub-keeper, “for the fishermen have left off shouting to say their prayers.  Per Diana!  The bare-headed and bare-legged rascals are as impudent as if St. Mark were their inheritance!  The noble patricians should give them a lesson in modesty, by sending every tenth knave among them to the galleys.  Miscreants! to disturb the quiet of an orderly town with their vulgar complaints!”

“But thou hast said nothing of the friar; is he with the rioters?”

“There is a Carmelite at the altar—­but my blood boiled at seeing such vagabonds disturb the peace of respectable persons, and I took little note of his air or years.”