“Oh, Irene! recognised even in this disguise,” said Adrian, seizing her trembling hand; “have I lived to gaze again upon that form—­to touch this hand?  Did not these eyes behold thee lifeless in that fearful vault, which I shudder to recall?  By what miracle wert thou raised again?  By what means did Heaven spare to this earth one that it seemed already to have placed amongst its angels?”

“Was this, indeed, thy belief?” said Irene, falteringly, but with an accent eloquent of joy.  “Thou didst not then willingly desert me?  Unjust that I was, I wronged thy noble nature, and deemed that my brother’s fall, my humble lineage, thy brilliant fate, had made thee renounce Irene.”

“Unjust indeed!” answered the lover.  “But surely I saw thee amongst the dead!—­thy cloak, with the silver stars—­who else wore the arms of the Roman Tribune?”

“Was it but the cloak then, which, dropped in the streets, was probably assumed by some more ill-fated victim; was it that sight alone, that made thee so soon despair?  Ah!  Adrian,” continued Irene, tenderly, but with reproach; “not even when I saw thee seemingly lifeless on the couch by which I had watched three days and nights, not even then did I despair!”

“What, then, my vision did not deceive me!  It was you who watched by my bed in that grim hour, whose love guarded, whose care preserved me!  And I, wretch that I was!—­”

“Nay,” answered Irene, “your thought was natural.  Heaven seemed to endow me with superhuman strength, whilst I was necessary to thee.  But judge of my dismay.  I left thee to seek the good friar who attended thee as thy leech; I returned, and found thee not.  Heart-sick and terrified, I searched the desolate city in vain.  Strong as I was while hope supported me, I sunk beneath fear.—­And my brother found me senseless, and stretched on the ground, by the church of St. Mark.”

“The church of St. Mark!—­so foretold his dream!”

“He had told me he had met thee; we searched for thee in vain; at length we heard that thou hadst left the city, and—­and—­I rejoiced, Adrian, but I repined!”

For some minutes the young lovers surrendered themselves to the delight of reunion, while new explanations called forth new transports.

“And now,” murmured Irene, “now that we have met—­” she paused, and her mask concealed her blushes.

“Now that we have met,” said Adrian, filling up the silence, “wouldst thou say further, ‘that we should not part?’ Trust me, dearest, that is the hope that animates my heart.  It was but to enjoy these brief bright moments with thee, that I delayed my departure to Palestrina.  Could I but hope to bring my young cousin into amity with thy brother, no barrier would prevent our union.  Willingly I forget the past—­the death of my unhappy kinsmen, (victims, it is true, to their own faults;) and, perhaps, amidst all the crowds that hailed his return, none more appreciated the great and lofty qualities of Cola di Rienzi, than did Adrian Colonna.”