CHAPTER X.

It is curious to recall our feelings at a moment when a great event is impending over us, and we are utterly unconscious of its probable occurrence.  How often does it happen that a subject which almost unceasingly engages our mind, is least thought of at the very instant that the agitating suspense involved in its consideration is perhaps about to be terminated for ever!  The very morning after the mysterious gondola had rested so long before the Manfrini Palace, Venetia rose for the first time since the flight from Rovigo, refreshed by her slumbers, and tranquil in her spirit.  It was not in her power to recall her dreams; but they had left a vague and yet serene impression.  There seemed a lightness in her heart, that long had been unusual with her, and she greeted her mother with a smile, faint indeed, yet natural.

Perhaps this beneficial change, slight but still delightful, might be attributed to the softness and the splendour of the morn.  Before the approach of winter, it seemed that the sun was resolved to remind the Venetians that they were his children; and that, although his rays might be soon clouded for a season, they were not to believe that their parent had deserted them.  The sea was like glass, a golden haze suffused the horizon, and a breeze, not strong enough to disturb the waters, was wafted at intervals from the gardens of the Brenta, fitful and sweet.

Venetia had yielded to the suggestion of her mother, and had agreed for the first time to leave the palace.  They stepped into their gondola, and were wafted to an island in the Lagune where there was a convent, and, what in Venice was more rare and more delightful, a garden.  Its scanty shrubberies sparkled in the sun; and a cypress flanked by a pine-tree offered to the eye unused to trees a novel and picturesque group.  Beneath its shade they rested, watching on one side the distant city, and on the other the still and gleaming waters of the Adriatic.  While they were thus sitting, renovated by the soft air and pleasant spectacle, a holy father, with a beard like a meteor, appeared and addressed them.

‘Welcome to St. Lazaro!’ said the holy father, speaking in English; ’and may the peace that reigns within its walls fill also your breasts!’

‘Indeed, holy father,’ said Lady Annabel to the Armenian monk, ’I have long heard of your virtues and your happy life.’

‘You know that Paradise was placed in our country,’ said the monk with a smile.  ’We have all lost Paradise, but the Armenian has lost his country too.  Nevertheless, with God’s blessing, on this islet we have found an Eden, pure at least and tranquil.’

‘For the pious, Paradise exists everywhere,’ said Lady Annabel.

‘You have been in England, holy father?’ said Venetia.

‘It has not been my good fortune,’ replied the monk.

’Yet you speak our tongue with a facility and accent that surprise me.’