Cardinal Bernis now approached with the silver vase.  On this occasion he had taken it upon himself to collect the themes, and with a respectful bow he handed them to the princess.  With a gracious smile she took one of the papers and unfolded it.  The subject was, “Longing for home.”

That was a theme well calculated to inspire Natalie, and to reawaken in her all her longings, sorrows, loves, and remembrances.  She suddenly felt something like a cold shudder in her heart, and glancing around with a feeling of solitude and desertion, she saw nothing but curious faces and strange, staring eyes!  She, also, was repudiated and homeless, and an excessive longing for the distant unknown home of her childhood now took possession of her.

Perhaps Carlo had read her thoughts upon her brow; low and plaintive melodies poured from his harp, as it were the rustling murmurs of far-off remembrances, the sighing and sobbing of a yearning heart.  And Natalie, carried away by these tones, forgetful of all around her, mindful only of the happiness of her childhood and of the lady she had so dearly loved, began to sing.

Of what she said and what she sang she was unconscious.  She stood there as if elevated by inward inspiration; her eyes flashed as she stared into the far distance, and the images she saw there caused her to smile and weep at the same time; all the glow, all the childlike purity of her soul, came in words from her lips in a stream of inspiration, of painful ecstasy!

She saw nothing, heard nothing!  She saw not the ladies weeping with emotion, not the rapturous glances of the men; she had entirely forgotten all those strange, unknown people; and when the constantly increasing storm of applause finally reminded her of them, it was all over with her inspiration—­the words died upon her lips, and with a sad smile she hastened to the conclusion.

And now arose a shout and an outbreak of rapture which caused Natalie to tremble with anxious timidity.  She cast a searching glance around her; it seemed to her that Paulo must come to her relief, that he must rescue and redeem her from the enthusiastic and flattering men who surrounded her.  She saw him not!  Where was Paulo, where was Carlo?  These inquisitive lord cardinals had formed a circle around her, she seemed to herself a prisoner; it alarmed her to thus find herself the central point of all these attractions.

Not far from her stood Corilla, with glowing cheeks and anger-flashing eyes.

“I will avenge this affront or die!” thought she, as, grasping Albani’s hand with convulsive violence, she whispered to him:  “Free me from this woman, and I will realize all your wishes.”

Francesco Albani smiled.  “Then you are mine, Corilla, and no power on earth shall take you from me.  That child is dead.  See, see how she makes herself a path through the crowd—­ah, it is too sultry for her here in the hall, she approaches the garden door, she slips out.  Ah, give me your hand, Corilla.  Yet a few moments and the fairest woman on earth is mine!”