“I have a favorite follower in this race,” he said gallantly, “and one in whose skill and force I put great trust.  Until now I have uselessly sought a lady of a beauty and merit so rare, as to warrant that I should place his fortune on her smiles.  But I seek no further.”

“You are gifted with a keen sight, Signore, that you discover all you seek beneath these masks,” returned one of the two females, while their companion, the Carmelite, bowed graciously to the compliment, which seemed little more than was warranted by the usage of such scenes.

“There are other means of recognition than the eyes, and other sources of admiration than the senses, lady.  Conceal yourselves as you will, here do I know that I am near the fairest face, the warmest heart, and the purest mind of Venice!”

“This is bold augury, Signore,” returned she who was evidently the oldest of the two, glancing a look at her companion as if to note the effect of this gallant speech.  “Venice has a name for the beauty of its dames, and the sun of Italy warms many a generous heart.”

“Better that such noble gifts should be directed to the worship of the Creator than of the creature,” murmured the monk.

“Some there are, holy father, who have admiration for both.  Such I would fain hope is the happy lot of her who is favored with the spiritual counsel of one so virtuous and wise as yourself.  Here I place my fortune, let what may follow; and here would I gladly place a heavier stake, were it permitted.”

As the cavalier spoke, he tendered to the silent fair a bouquet of the sweetest and most fragrant flowers; and among them were those to which poets and custom have ascribed the emblematic qualities of constancy and love.  She, to whom this offering of gallantry was made, hesitated to accept it.  It much exceeded the reserve imposed on one of her station and years to allow of such homage from the other sex, though the occasion was generally deemed one that admitted of more than usual gallantry; and she evidently shrank, with the sensitiveness of one whose feelings were unpractised, from a homage so public.

“Receive the flowers, my love,” mildly whispered her companion—­“the cavalier who offers them simply intends to show the quality of his breeding.”

“That will be seen in the end,” hastily returned Don Camillo—­for it was he.  “Signora, adieu; we have met on this water when there was less restraint between us.”

He bowed, and, signing to his gondolier, was quickly lost in the crowd of boats.  Ere the barks, however, were separated, the mask of the silent fair was slightly moved as if she sought relief from the air; and the Neapolitan was rewarded for his gallantry by a momentary glance at the glowing countenance of Violetta.

“Thy guardian hath a displeased eye,” hurriedly observed Donna Florinda.  “I wonder that we should be known!”

“I should more wonder that we were not.  I could recall the noble Neapolitan cavalier amid a million.  Thou dost not remember all that I owe to him!”