“Your lordship looks like a heathen god engaged in a love affair.  Jupiter has sheathed his thunderbolts and Apollo has pocketed his rays.”

“A truce to your mythology.  And, to begin with, I forbid you to call me ‘your lordship.’”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“If my information that I have procured during the day is correct, the house must be on the other side of the island, in a most remote and lonely spot.  Walk at a certain distance, and do not trouble yourself about me, for I know my part by heart.”

The young Prince of Brancaleone, whom, in spite of the darkness of the night, our readers will already have recognised, advanced towards the fisherman’s house, with as little noise as possible, walked up and down several times upon the shore, and, after having briefly reconnoitred the place that he wished to attack, waited quietly for the moon to rise and light up the scene that he had prepared.  He was not obliged to exercise his patience very long, for the darkness gradually disappeared, and Solomon’s little house was bathed in silvery light.  Then he approached with timid steps, lifted towards the casement a look of entreaty, and began to sigh with all the power of his lungs.  The young girl, called suddenly from her meditations by the appearance of this strange person, raised herself sharply and prepared to close the shutters.

“Stay, charming Nisida!” cried the prince, in the manner of a man overcome by irresistible passion.

“What do you want with me, signor?” answered the maiden, amazed to hear herself called by name.

“To adore you as a Madonna is adored, and to make you aware of my sighs.”

Nisida looked at him steadily, and, after a moment or two of reflection, asked suddenly, as though in response to some secret thought, “Do you belong to this country, or are you a foreigner?”

“I arrived in this island,” replied the prince without hesitation, “at the moment when the sun was writing his farewell to the earth and dipping the rays that serves as his pen into the shadow that serves as his inkstand.”

“And who are you?” returned the young girl, not at all understanding these strange words.

“Alas!  I am but a poor student, but I may become a great poet like Tasso, whose verses you often hear sung by a departing fisherman who sends his thrilling music as a last farewell that returns to die on the beach.”

“I do not know whether I am doing wrong to speak to you, but at least I will be frank with you,” said Nisida, blushing; “I have the misfortune to be the richest girl on the island.”

“Your father will not be inexorable,” returned the prince ardently; “one word from you, light of my eyes, goddess of my heart, and I will work night and day, never pausing nor slackening, and will render. myself worthy to possess the treasure that God has revealed to my dazzled eyes, and, from being poor and obscure as you see me, I will become rich and powerful.”