“And yet his masters, the good Augustines themselves, do not hold so selfish a creed!” observed Adelheid.

“Ah! they have heaven in view!  I cry the reverend Augustine’s pardon—­but, lady, the difference is in the length of the calculation.  Woe’s me, brethren; I would that my parents had educated me for a bishop, or a viceroy, or some other modest employment, that this learned craft of mine might have fallen into better hands!  Ye would lose in instruction, but I should be removed from the giddy heights of ambition, and die at last with some hopes of being a saint.  Fair lady, thou travellest on a bootless errand, if I know the reason that tempts thee to cross the Alps at this late season of the year.”

This sudden address caused both Adelheid and her father to start, for, in despite of pride and the force of reason, it is seldom that we can completely redeem our opinions from the shackles of superstition, and that dread of the unseen future which appears to have been entailed upon our nature, as a ceaseless monitor of the eternal state of being to which all are hastening, with steps so noiseless and yet so sure.  The countenance of the maiden changed, and she turned a quick, involuntary glance at her anxious parent, as if to note the effect of this rude announcement on him before she answered.

“I go in quest of the blessing, health,” she said, “and I should be sorry to think thy prognostic likely to be realized.  With youth, a good constitution, and tender friends of my side, there is reason to think thou mayest, in this at least, prove a false prophet.”

“Lady, hast thou hope?”

Pippo ventured this question as he had adventured his opinion; that is to say, recklessly, pretendingly, and with great indifference to any effect it might have, except as it was likely to establish his reputation with the crowd.  Still, it would seem, that by one of those singular coincidences that are hourly occurring in real life, he had unwittingly touched a sensitive chord in the system of his fair fellow-traveller.  Her eyes sank to the deck at this abrupt question, the color again stole to her polished temples, and the least practised in the emotions of the sex might have detected painful embarrassment in her mein.  She was, however, spared the awkwardness of a reply, by the unexpected and prompt interference of Maso.

“Hope is the last of our friends to prove recreant,” said this mariner, “else would the cases of many in company be bad enough, thine own included, Pippo; for, judging by the outward signs, the Swabian campaign has not been rich in spoils.”