CHAPTER II.

Our hero and heroine.

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see.

-Merchant of Venice.

At the close of a long summer’s day under the skies of Italy, the shades of twilight were deepening on a verdant and vine-clad hillside of the Val d’Arno, when two lovers, who had evidently been strolling together, sat down side by side under a natural trellis of vines.  The twilight hour of midsummer will lend enchantment to almost any scene; but this is peculiarly the case in Italy, where every shadow seems poetic-every view fit for the painter’s canvass.

The gentleman was of frank and manly bearing, and as he had approached the spot where they now sat, with the graceful figure of his fair companion leaning upon his arm, he evinced that soft and persuasive mien, that easy elegance of manner and polish in his address, which travel and good society can alone impart.  Around his noble forehead, now bared to the gentle breeze, his long auburn hair hung in waving ringlets, after the style of the period, while his countenance was of that intelligent and thoughtful cast, tinted by a shade of sorrow, which rarely fails to captivate the eye.

In person, he was rather tall, erect and well-proportioned, though perhaps he was rather thin in flesh to appear to so good advantage as he might have done, yet altogether he was of handsome form and pleasant mien.  His dress bespoke the hollowness of his purse, notwithstanding he bore about him the indelible marks of a gentleman; and the careful observer would have recognized in him the artist that had separated from his companions on the Plaza at noonday near the shaft of the Campanile.

His companion was manifestly a lady of rank and a most lovely female, satisfying the eye at the first glance, and constantly pleasing the longer it dwelt upon her.  When we describe an Italian lady as being beautiful, she must be so indeed; for there is no half way between beauty and the opposite extreme here.  There are but few really handsome women in Tuscany, but these few are of a class of beauty that may well have ravished the rest of their sex in this fair clime.  Her countenance was radiant with thought and feeling, and her large and dewy eyes of blue—­nature’s own sweet tint—­rested fondly on him by her side.

Her rich and abundant dark hair was parted smoothly across her unblemished forehead, which might have been marble, so smooth and pure, but for the warm blood that flowed through those delicate blue channels.  The mouth and features were of the Grecian model, and when she smiled she showed a ravishing sweetness of expression, and teeth that rivalled those of an Indian.  In form, her person was slightly voluptuous, though strictly within the most true female delicacy.  Such is a sketch of the two whom we at the outset denominated as lovers; and such they were, as the progress of our story will disclose.