Donna Violetta was silent, while the monk and Donna Florinda both regarded her with affectionate concern.  The former then adjusted his cowl, and prepared to depart.  The noble maiden approached the Carmelite, and looking into his face with ingenuous confidence and habitual reverence, she besought his blessing.  When the solemn and customary office was performed, the monk turned towards the companion of his spiritual charge.  Donna Florinda permitted the silk, on which her needle had been busy, to fall into her lap, and she sat in meek silence, while the Carmelite raised his open palms towards her bended head.  His lips moved, but the words of benediction were inaudible.  Had the ardent being intrusted to their joint care been less occupied with her own feelings, or more practised in the interests of that world into which she was about to enter, it is probable she would have detected some evidence of that deep but smothered sympathy, which so often betrayed itself in the silent intelligence of her ghostly father and her female Mentor.

“Thou wilt not forget us, Father?” said Violetta, with winning earnestness.  “An orphan girl, in whose fate the sages of the Republic so seriously busy themselves, has need of every friend in whom she can confide.”

“Blessed be thy intercessor,” said the monk, “and the peace of the innocent be with thee.”

Once more he waved his hand, and turning, he slowly quitted the room.  The eye of Donna Florinda followed the white robes of the Carmelite, while they were visible; and when it fell again upon the silk, it was for a moment closed, as if looking at the movements of the rebuked spirit within.  The young mistress of the palace summoned a menial, and bade him do honor to her confessor, by seeing him to his gondola.  She then moved to the open balcony.  A long pause succeeded; it was such a silence, breathing, thoughtful, and luxurious with the repose of Italy, as suited the city and the hour.  Suddenly Violetta receded from the open window, and withdrew a step, in alarm.

“Is there a boat beneath?” demanded her companion, whose glance was unavoidably attracted to the movement.

“The water was never more quiet.  But thou hearest those strains of the hautboys?”

“Are they so rare on the canals, that they drive thee from the balcony?”

“There are cavaliers beneath the windows of the Mentoni palace; doubtless they compliment our friend Olivia.”

“Even that gallantry is common.  Thou knowest that Olivia is shortly to be united to her kinsman, and he takes the usual means to show his admiration.”

“Dost thou not find this public announcement of a passion painful?  Were I to be wooed, I could wish it might only be to my own ear.”

“That is an unhappy sentiment for one whose hand is in the gift of the Senate!  I fear that a maiden of thy rank must be content to hear her beauty extolled and her merits sung, if not exaggerated, even by hirelings beneath a balcony.”