Meanwhile, she had not stood thus long in the public square of Perugia, without attracting the observation of many eyes.  With their quick sense of beauty, these Italians had recognized her loveliness, and spared not to take their fill of gazing at it; though their native gentleness and courtesy made their homage far less obtrusive than that of Germans, French, or Anglo-Saxons might have been.  It is not improbable that Miriam had planned this momentous interview, on so public a spot and at high noon, with an eye to the sort of protection that would be thrown over it by a multitude of eye-witnesses.  In circumstances of profound feeling and passion, there is often a sense that too great a seclusion cannot be endured; there is an indefinite dread of being quite alone with the object of our deepest interest.  The species of solitude that a crowd harbors within itself is felt to be preferable, in certain conditions of the heart, to the remoteness of a desert or the depths of an untrodden wood.  Hatred, love, or whatever kind of too intense emotion, or even indifference, where emotion has once been, instinctively seeks to interpose some barrier between itself and the corresponding passion in another breast.  This, we suspect, was what Miriam had thought of, in coming to the thronged piazza; partly this, and partly, as she said, her superstition that the benign statue held good influences in store.

But Donatello remained leaning against the balustrade.  She dared not glance towards him, to see whether he were pale and agitated, or calm as ice.  Only, she knew that the moments were fleetly lapsing away, and that his heart must call her soon, or the voice would never reach her.  She turned quite away from him and spoke again to the sculptor.

“I have wished to meet you,” said she, “for more than one reason.  News has come to me respecting a dear friend of ours.  Nay, not of mine!  I dare not call her a friend of mine, though once the dearest.”

“Do you speak of Hilda?” exclaimed Kenyon, with quick alarm.  “Has anything befallen her?  When I last heard of her, she was still in Rome, and well.”

“Hilda remains in Rome,” replied Miriam, “nor is she ill as regards physical health, though much depressed in spirits.  She lives quite alone in her dove-cote; not a friend near her, not one in Rome, which, you know, is deserted by all but its native inhabitants.  I fear for her health, if she continue long in such solitude, with despondency preying on her mind.  I tell you this, knowing the interest which the rare beauty of her character has awakened in you.”

“I will go to Rome!” said the sculptor, in great emotion.  “Hilda has never allowed me to manifest more than a friendly regard; but, at least, she cannot prevent my watching over her at a humble distance.  I will set out this very hour.”

“Do not leave us now!” whispered Miriam imploringly, and laying her hand on his arm.  “One moment more!  Ah; he has no word for me!”