On entering the garden everything bore the same look as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured me.  There were the alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca; the same shades under which we had so often sat during the noontide.  There were the same flowers of which she was fond; and which appeared still to be under the ministry of her hand.  Everything around looked and breathed of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step.  I passed a little bower in which we had often sat and read together.  A book and a glove lay on the bench.  It was Bianca’s glove; it was a volume of the Metestasio I had given her.  The glove lay in my favorite passage.  I clasped them to my heart.  “All is safe!” exclaimed I, with rapture, “she loves me! she is still my own!”

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so slowly at my departure.  I beheld her favorite pavilion which had witnessed our parting scene.  The window was open, with the same vine clambering about it, precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu.  Oh! how transporting was the contrast in my situation.  As I passed near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice.  They thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken.  Before I could think, I felt they were Bianca’s.  For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation.  I feared to break in suddenly upon her.  I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion.  The door was open.  I saw Bianca seated at a table; her back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing.  A glance sufficed to show me that she was copying one of my own paintings.  I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious tumult of emotions.  She paused in her singing; a heavy sigh, almost a sob followed.  I could no longer contain myself.  “Bianca!” exclaimed I, in a half smothered voice.  She started at the sound; brushed back the ringlets that hung clustering about her face; darted a glance at me; uttered a piercing shriek and would have fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my arms.

“Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom; my voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy.  She lay in my arms without sense or motion.  Alarmed at the effects of my own precipitation, I scarce knew what to do.  I tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back to consciousness.  She slowly recovered, and half opening her eyes—­“where am I?” murmured she faintly.  “Here,” exclaimed I, pressing her to my bosom.  “Here! close to the heart that adores you; in the arms of your faithful Ottavio!”

“Oh no! no! no!” shrieked she, starting into sudden life and terror—­“away! away! leave me! leave me!”

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the saloon, and covered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me were baleful.  I was thunderstruck—­I could not believe my senses.  I followed her, trembling, confounded.  I endeavored to take her hand, but she shrunk from my very touch with horror.