dispersed right and left as soon as they were landed—­each to his own favorite haunts of pleasure or dissipation—­but I was in no humor to be easily amused.  Though I had plenty of acquaintance in the city, I cared little for such entertainment as they could offer me.  As I strolled along through one of the principal streets, considering whether or not I should return on foot to my own dwelling on the heights, I heard a sound of singing, and perceived in the distance a glimmer of white robes.  It was the Month of Mary, and I at once concluded that this must be an approaching Procession of the Virgin.  Half in idleness, half in curiosity, I stood still and waited.  The singing voices came nearer and nearer—­I saw the priests, the acolytes, the swinging gold censers heavy with fragrance, the flaring candles, the snowy veils of children and girls—­and then all suddenly the picturesque beauty of the scene danced before my eyes in a whirling blur of brilliancy and color from which looked forth—­one face!  One face beaming out like a star from a cloud of amber tresses—­one face of rose-tinted, childlike loveliness—­a loveliness absolutely perfect, lighted up by two luminous eyes, large and black as night—­one face in which the small, curved mouth smiled half provokingly, half sweetly!  I gazed and gazed again, dazzled and excited, beauty makes such fools of us all!  This was a woman—­one of the sex I mistrusted and avoided—­a woman in the earliest spring of her youth, a girl of fifteen or sixteen at the utmost.  Her veil had been thrown back by accident or design, and for one brief moment I drank in that soul-tempting glance, that witch-like smile!  The procession passed—­the vision faded—­but in that breath of time one epoch of my life had closed forever, and another had begun!

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Of course I married her.  We Neapolitans lose no time in such matters.  We are not prudent.  Unlike the calm blood of Englishmen, ours rushes swiftly through our veins—­it is warm as wine and sunlight, and needs no fictitious stimulant.  We love, we desire, we possess; and then?  We tire, you say?  These southern races are so fickle!  All wrong—­we are less tired than you deem.  And do not Englishmen tire?  Have they no secret ennui at times when sitting in the chimney nook of “home, sweet home,” with their fat wives and ever-spreading families?  Truly, yes!  But they are too cautious to say so.

I need not relate the story of my courtship—­it was brief and sweet as a song sung perfectly.  There were no obstacles.  The girl I sought was the only daughter of a ruined Florentine noble of dissolute character, who gained a bare subsistence by frequenting the gaming-tables.  His child had been brought up in a convent renowned for strict discipline—­she knew nothing of the world.  She was, he assured me, with maudlin tears in his eyes, “as innocent as a flower on the altar of the Madonna.”  I believed him—­for what could this lovely, youthful, low-voiced maiden know of even the shadow of evil?  I was eager to gather so fair a lily for my own proud wearing—­and her father gladly gave her to me, no doubt inwardly congratulating himself on the wealthy match that had fallen to the lot of his dowerless daughter.