“Tender, not mournful,” said she.  “I do believe that even now my mother watches over her child, and every prayer she once breathed, every precept she once taught, will come more freshly home to my heart, when each place recalls some word or some look there heard and there watched.  It is for your sake, Lorenzo, I would be like my mother.”

They went to that fair villa by the sea; and pleasantly did many a morn pass in the large hall, on whose frescoed walls was painted the story of Oenone, she whom the Trojan prince left, only to return and die at her feet.  On the balustrade were placed sweet-scented shrubs, and marble vases filled with gathered flowers; and, in the midst, a fountain, whose spars and coral seemed the spoil of some sea-nymph’s grotto, fell down in a sparkling shower, and echoed the music of Giulietta’s lute.  Pleasant, too, was it in an evening to walk the broad terrace which overlooked the ocean, and watch the silver moonlight reflected on the sea, till air and water were but as one bright element.

And soon had Carrara reason to rejoice that he had yielded to his wife’s wish; for, ere they had been married three months, the plague broke out in Genoa, with such virulence, as if, indeed, a demon had been unchained upon earth.  “The spirit of your mother, my sweet wife, has indeed been our guardian angel,” said the count, as he watched a fresh sea-breeze lift up the long dark curls, and call the crimson into Giulietta’s cheek.  Still, though safe themselves—­for, though the distance from Genoa was but short, their secluded situation and the sea-air precluded all fear of infection—­still an atmosphere of terror and woe was around them, and their thoughts were carried out of their own sweet home by dim and half-told tales of the dangers around them.  And among other things, Giulietta heard of her uncle’s heroic conduct; others fled from the devoted city—­but he fled not; others shut themselves up in their lonely palaces—­he went forth amid the dead and dying; his voice gave consolation to the sick man, and his prayer called on Heaven for mercy to the departed soul.  Giulietta heard, and in the silence of her chamber wept; and, when her tears were done, knelt, and gave thanks to God for her uncle.

For the first time hope arose within her, and she said to herself—­“He who walks now even as an angel among his fellow-men cannot but forgive the errors and the weakness of earth.”  She went to meet her husband with a lightened heart; but, as she met him on the terrace, she saw that his brow was clouded, and his first words told her that important business would oblige him to go for a week to an ancient castle on the verge of the state, as his neighbours were disposed to question his boundary rights.  It was but a day’s, a summer day’s, journey, through a healthy district; and yet how sorrowful was the parting!  Alas! how soon the presence of beloved ones becomes a habit and a necessity! but a few weeks with them at our side, and we marvel how ever life was endured without them.  The young countess touched her lute—­it had no music; she gathered flowers—­they had no sweetness; she turned to the fairy page of Ariosto—­but she took no interest in his knights or dames; and at length the day was spent ere she had finished pacing the hall, and imagining all the possible and impossible dangers that could befal Carrara.