“Not to my favor; it would sicken me to hear words of favor from such as they!”

“They are not thy friends, Annina.”

“Perhaps they told thee, child, that I was in the employment of the council?”

“Indeed they did.”

“No wonder.  Your dishonest people can never believe one can do an act of pure conscience.  But here comes the Neapolitan.—­Note the libertine, Gelsomina, and thou wilt feel for him the same disgust as I!”

The door opened, and Don Camillo Monforte entered.  There was an appearance of distrust in his manner, which proved that he did not expect to meet his bride.  Gelsomina arose, and, though bewildered by the tale of her cousin, and her own previous impressions, she stood resembling a meek statue of modesty, awaiting his approach.  The Neapolitan was evidently struck by her beauty, and the simplicity of her air, but his brow was fixed, like that of a man who had steeled his feelings against deceit.

“Thou would’st see me?” he said.

“I had that wish, noble Signore, but—­Annina—­”

“Seeing another, thy mind hath changed.”

“Signore, it has.”

Don Camillo looked at her earnestly, and with manly regret.

“Thou art young for thy vocation—­here is gold.  Retire as thou earnest.—­But hold—­dost thou know this Annina?”

“She is my mother’s sister’s daughter, noble Duca.

“Per Diana! a worthy sisterhood!  Depart together, for I have no need of either.  But mark me,” and as he spoke, Don Camillo took Annina by the arm, and led her aside, when he continued with a low but menacing voice—­“Thou seest I am to be feared, as well as thy Councils.  Thou canst not cross the threshold of thy father without my knowledge.  If prudent, thou wilt teach thy tongue discretion.  Do as thou wilt, I fear thee not; but remember, prudence.”

Annina made an humble reverence, as if in acknowledgment of the wisdom of his advice, and taking the arm of her half-unconscious cousin, she again curtsied, and hurried from the room.  As the presence of their master in his closet was known to them, none of the menials presumed to stop those who issued from the privileged room.  Gelsomina, who was even more impatient than her wily companion to escape from a place she believed polluted, was nearly breathless when she reached the gondola.  Its owner was in waiting on the steps, and in a moment the boat whirled away from a spot which both of those it contained were, though for reasons so very different, glad to quit.

Gelsomina had forgotten her mask in her hurry, and the gondola was no sooner in the great canal than she put her face at the window of the pavilion in quest of the evening air.  The rays of the moon fell upon her guileless eye, and a cheek that was now glowing, partly with offended pride, and partly with joy at her escape from a situation she felt to be so degrading.  Her forehead was touched with a finger, and turning she saw the gondolier making a sign of caution.  He then slowly lifted his mask.