Chapter 16

"Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights,
And I shall slumber well--but where?--no matter.
Adieu, my Angiolina."
MARINO FALIERO.

When the Carmelite re-entered the apartment of Donna Violetta his face
was covered with the hue of death, and his limbs with difficulty
supported him to a chair. He scarcely observed that Don Camillo Monforte
was still present, nor did he note the brightness and joy which glowed
in the eyes of the ardent Violetta. Indeed his appearance was at first
unseen by the happy lovers, for the Lord of St. Agata had succeeded in
wresting the secret from the breast of his mistress, if that may be
called a secret which Italian character had scarcely struggled to
retain, and he had crossed the room before even the more tranquil look
of the Donna Florinda rested on his person.

"Thou art ill!" exclaimed the governess. "Father Anselmo hath not been
absent without grave cause!"

The monk threw back his cowl for air, and the act discovered the deadly
paleness of his features. But his eye, charged with a meaning of horror,
rolled over the faces of those who drew around him, as if he struggled
with memory to recall their persons.

"Ferdinando! Father Anselmo!" cried the Donna Florinda, correcting the
unbidden familiarity, though she could not command the anxiety of her
rebel features; "Speak to us--thou art suffering!"

"Ill at heart, Florinda."

"Deceive us not--haply thou hast more evil tidings--Venice--"

"Is a fearful state."

"Why hast thou quitted us?--why in a moment of so much importance to our
pupil--a moment that may prove of the last influence on her
happiness--hast thou been absent for a long hour?"

Violetta turned a surprised and unconscious glance towards the clock,
but she spoke not.

"The servants of the state had need of me," returned the monk, easing
the pain of his spirit by a groan.

"I understand thee, father;--thou hast shrived a penitent?"

"Daughter, I have: and few depart more at peace with God and their
fellows!"

Donna Florinda murmured a short prayer for the soul of the dead, piously
crossing herself as she concluded. Her example was imitated by her
pupil, and even the lips of Don Camillo moved, while his head was bowed
by the side of his fair companion in seeming reverence.

"'Twas a just end, father?" demanded Donna Florinda.

"It was an unmerited one!" cried the monk, with fervor, "or there is no
faith in man. I have witnessed the death of one who was better fitted to
live, as happily he was better fitted to die, than those who pronounced
his