“So you know not yon gay cavalier, little sister?” she said, looking askance at her from under her long lashes.

“No, indeed!  What has an honest girl to do with knowing gay cavaliers?” said Dame Elsie, bestirring herself with packing the remaining oranges into a basket, which she covered trimly with a heavy linen towel of her own weaving.  “Girls never come to good who let their eyes go walking through the earth, and have the names of all the wild gallants on their tongues.  Agnes knows no such nonsense,—­blessed be her gracious patroness, with Our Lady and Saint Michael!”

“I hope there is no harm in knowing what is right before one’s eyes,” said Giulietta.  “Anybody must be blind and deaf not to know the Lord Adrian.  All the girls in Sorrento know him.  They say he is even greater than he appears,—­that he is brother to the King himself; at any rate, a handsomer and more gallant gentleman never wore spurs.”

“Let him keep to his own kind,” said Elsie.  “Eagles make bad work in dovecots.  No good comes of such gallants for us.”

“Nor any harm, that I ever heard of,” said Giulietta.  “But let me see, pretty one,—­what did he give you?  Holy Mother! what a handsome ring!”

“It is to hang on the shrine of Saint Agnes,” said the younger girl, looking up with simplicity.

A loud laugh was the first answer to this communication.  The scarlet clover-tops shook and quivered with the merriment.

“To hang on the shrine of Saint Agnes!” Giulietta repeated.  “That is a little too good!”

“Go, go, you baggage!” said Elsie, wrathfully brandishing her spindle.  “If ever you get a husband, I hope he’ll give you a good beating!  You need it, I warrant!  Always stopping on the bridge there, to have cracks with the young men!  Little enough you know of saints, I dare say!  So keep away from my child!—­Come, Agnes,” she said, as she lifted the orange-basket on to her head; and, straightening her tall form, she seized the girl by the hand to lead her away.

CHAPTER II.

The dove-cot.

The old town of Sorrento is situated on an elevated plateau, which stretches into the sunny waters of the Mediterranean, guarded on all sides by a barrier of mountains which defend it from bleak winds and serve to it the purpose of walls to a garden.  Here, groves of oranges and lemons,—­with their almost fabulous coincidence of fruitage with flowers, fill the air with perfume, which blends with that of roses and jessamines; and the fields are so starred and enamelled with flowers that they might have served as the type for those Elysian realms sung by ancient poets.  The fervid air is fanned by continual sea-breezes, which give a delightful elasticity to the otherwise languid climate.  Under all these cherishing influences, the human being develops a wealth and luxuriance of physical beauty unknown in less