come? I thought you at Padua still. But said you not that I was sad?—indeed, Rinaldo, it was not so. I —I—only was thinking——"
"You were thinking, sweet love," he fondly interrupted her, "of the clouds that seem to lower around our fate,—God knows they are dark enough!" and then, as if his thoughts grew gloomier at the recollection, he added, "and I am at times almost minded to despair, and go as an adventurer after those rich lands which Christoph Colon has but lately discovered far, far away to the westward of the pillar of Hercules. The enmity of your step-father—his power in Venice and my own ruined fortunes, have tempted me a thousand times to leave Italy forever—for oh! Beatrice," he added fervently, "never, never will I make you the bride of a beggar, an outcast, or a proscribed man—and all these I will be if I continue much longer in Venice, braving the hate of the house of Vivaldo."
"Stop, stop, Rinaldo," eagerly said the maiden, "your fancy is now the father of your fears. Dark as our fates seem they will not always continue so. The night must break, and it is even now breaking, for the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and can our destiny be gloomier than now? Believe me," she added enthusiastically, "we shall see better times. The hate of my step-father though deadly cannot be eternal—even a councillor of Venice is not all powerful—your own house, though ruined in fortune now, has a gallant name, and may yet be restored to its former power and glory—in short, a thousand things may elapse before another twelvemonth which may change the whole current of our fate, and, and—"
"Give us to each other," interposed the lover, folding the blushing girl enthusiastically again to his bosom, the whole current of his feelings changing by her words—"You give me new life, Beatrice—I was but a child to despond as I have done. But it was only a momentary feeling—one of those clouds that will flit over the soul mysteriously at times, and which may or may not be presentiments of evil. But they have past. I feel nerved now for any act.
"Promise only to be mine if I come to claim you in a year, and nothing shall then check my career to glory. You have given me the clue to success—bless you for it!—and I will rebuild the fallen fortunes of our house. Then even a Vivaldo will not refuse me a daughter of his house. At Padua I have dreamed away too many precious hours, and though the verses I then wrote—do you remember them, Beatrice?—first won me your love; yet I fear me, since then, I have been wasting in literary studies the days and nights that should have been spent in the tented field. I have dreamed over Dante and Petrarch when I should have been leading squadrons to the charge," and as he ceased, the glow of his features, and the vivid brilliancy of his eye, showed that the spirit of the soldier was burning within the poet's bosom.
"But where will you go?—will you leave Italy? shall I not see you or hear from you for a whole year?" said Beatrice, her woman nature triumphing for a moment over every thing else. It was now the student's turn to be the comforter, and he replied,
"I know not yet scarcely where I shall go. There is good service to be had at Naples, and there are wars enough beyond the Alps to flesh all the swords in Christendom, to say nothing of a chance against the Moslem, which may yet turn up if the horizon in that quarter does not speedily brighten. Fear not, Beatrice —since I have made up my mind, all will go well. My absence may lead your persecutors to think that I have abandoned the pursuit of your hand, and they may therefore remit their tyranny over you. If God, and our patron of St. Mark smile on me, you shall hear from me before six months have gone. In a year, at most, I will be at your feet. Then you will be your own mistress, and can be mine in defiance of Vivaldo. When I left Padua, some such plan as this, was dimly floating through my mind, but your words have given it a shape, and I shall enter on its execution satisfied that I have the prayers of one of the brightest and best of women to go with me."
For some time the lovers conversed in a low tone. While they are thus engaged, we will briefly sketch so much of their former history as has not been shadowed forth in their conversation.
The lady Beatrice was the daughter of a noble Venetian house, which had become allied by marriage with the powerful family of the Vivaldo. From her youth she had been remarkable for her beauty,—and, at an early age, she was already sought for by more than one noble of Venice. But her step-father, in whose guardianship she was now placed, had destined her to be the bride of his nephew, a proud, fierce, but powerful noble, and the head of the Vivaldo house. The character of the suitor alone would have prevented Beatrice from loving him; but even at that early age she had been inspired with a passion for another. This person was no other than the author of some poems which at that time were the delight of Italy; but who the poet was no one knew. His writings were anonymously circulated in manuscript, and the most that could be discovered, by diligent enquiry, was, that the writer resided at the university of Padua, at that time one ofthe most renowned schools in Italy.
Chance, however, discovered the writer to Beatrice; for, one day, attending mass in the church of St. Mark, she noticed a noble looking young cavalier gazing intently on her. After the service was over, and she retired, she observed that the cavalier followed her cautiously and at a distance in his gondola. There was something
