She was walking languidly on the terrace early the following morning, when a hum of voices caught her ear; one name rivetted her attention:  a horrible conviction rushed upon her mind.  She called a page, who at first equivocated; but the truth was at last owned.  The cardinal was stricken with the plague.  She signed to the page to leave her, and sank for a moment against one of the columns.  It was but for a moment.  She withdrew her hands from her face:  it was pale, but tearless; and she left the terrace for her chamber with a slow but firm step.  Two hours afterwards, the countess was sought by her attendants, but in vain; a letter was found addressed to their master, and fastened by one long, shining curl of raven darkness, which all knew to be hers.

Leaving the household to the dismay and confusion which such a departure occasioned, we will follow the steps of the countess, who was now on the road to Genoa.  She had waited but to resume the black serge dress, which, as a novice of St. Caterina’s, she had worn, and in which she knew she might pass for one of the sisters who had vowed attendance on the sick; and, during the hour of the siesta, made her escape unobserved.  Giulietta had been from infancy accustomed to long rambles by the sea-shore, or through the deep pine-forests; but now, though her purpose gave her strength, she felt sadly weary; when, on the almost deserted road, she overtook a man who was driving a small cart laden with fruit and vegetables.  She accosted him; and the offer of a few piastres at once procured a conveyance to Genoa, for thither was her companion bound.

“The plague,” said he, “makes everything so scarce, that my garden has brought me a little fortune; it is an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

“And are you not afraid of the infection?” asked the seeming Sister of Charity.

“Nothing hazard nothing win.  A good lining of ducats is the best remedy for the plague,” returned the gardener.

“Holy Madonna,” thought Giulietta, “shall I not encounter for gratitude and dear love the peril which this man risks for a few ducats?”

The quarter where stood her uncle’s palace was at the entrance of the city, and to reach it they had to traverse the principal street.  How changed since last the countess passed that way!  Then it was crowded with gay equipages and gayer company.  She remembered the six white mules with their golden trappings, which drew the emblazoned coach of her uncle along; and how she leant back upon its purple velvet cushions, scarcely daring to glance amid the crowd of white-plumed cavaliers who reined in the curvettings of their brave steeds, lest she should meet Lorenzo da Carrara’s eye, and betray their whole secret in a blush.  Now not one living creature walked the street, and the sound of their light cart was like thunder.  She was roused from her reverie by observing that her companion was taking an opposite direction to that of the palace; and requested to alight, mentioning her destination.