As he rose, somewhat relieved from the burthen at his heart, the nun rose also, and started to perceive him.

“Unhappy man!” said she, in a voice which, low, faint, and solemn, sounded as a ghost’s—­“what fatality brings thee hither?  Seest thou not thou art in the presence of clay which the Plague hath touched—­thou breathest the air which destroys!  Hence! and search throughout all the desolation for one spot where the Dark Visitor hath not come!”

“Holy maiden,” answered Adrian, “the danger you hazard does not appal me;—­I seek one whose life is dearer than my own.”

“Thou needest say no more to tell me thou art newly come to Florence!  Here son forsakes his father, and mother deserts her child.  When life is most hopeless, these worms of a day cling to it as if it were the salvation of immortality!  But for me alone, death has no horror.  Long severed from the world, I have seen my sisterhood perish—­the house of God desecrated—­its altar overthrown, and I care not to survive,—­the last whom the Pestilence leaves at once unperjured and alive.”

The nun paused a few moments, and then, looking earnestly at the healthful countenance and unbroken frame of Adrian, sighed heavily—­“Stranger, why fly you not?” she said.  “Thou mightst as well search the crowded vaults and rotten corruption of the dead, as search the city for one living.”

“Sister, and bride of the blessed Redeemer!” returned the Roman, clasping his hands—­“one word I implore thee.  Thou art, methinks, of the sisterhood of yon dismantled convent; tell me, knowest thou if Irene di Gabrini, (The family name of Rienzi was Gabrini.)—­guest of the late Abbess, sister of the fallen Tribune of Rome,—­be yet amongst the living?”

“Art thou her brother, then?” said the nun.  “Art thou that fallen Sun of the Morning?”

“I am her betrothed,” replied Adrian, sadly.  “Speak.”

“Oh, flesh! flesh! how art thou victor to the last, even amidst the triumphs and in the lazar-house of corruption!” said the nun.  “Vain man!  Think not of such carnal ties; make thy peace with heaven, for thy days are surely numbered!”

“Woman!” cried Adrian, impatiently—­“talk not to me of myself, nor rail against ties whose holiness thou canst not know.  I ask thee again, as thou thyself hopest for mercy and for pardon, is Irene living?”

The nun was awed by the energy of the young lover, and after a moment, which seemed to him an age of agonized suspense, she replied—­

“The maiden thou speakest of died not with the general death.  In the dispersion of the few remaining, she left the convent—­I know not whither; but she had friends in Florence—­their names I cannot tell thee.”

“Now bless thee, holy sister! bless thee!  How long since she left the convent?”

“Four days have passed since the robber and the harlot have seized the house of Santa Maria,” replied the nun, groaning:  “and they were quick successors to the sisterhood.”