Monte-Leone had resolved to leave Naples for some time. The proximity of
Sorrento lacerated his heart, and to see her he loved the wife of
another would to him be insupportable. Taddeo was aware of the reasons
why the Count had determined to travel, and had he no mother he would
also have been anxious to leave the country.

"Taddeo," said Monte-Leone to his friend, when the former was about to
set out, "I have a favor to ask of you on which I place an immense
estimate, and for which I must be indebted to your love. Here," said he,
presenting the magnificent emerald wrought by Benvenuto Cellini, "take
this ring, and beg your sister to accept it. Tell her, as she offered me
her friendship, I have a right to send a testimonial to her of my
devotion." Then with a voice trembling with emotion, he added, "Say this
ring preserved my life. This will not add to its value in her eyes; but
tell her in confidence the history of this ring, and some day," said he,
with a bitter smile, "it may be looked on as a curious relic."

"Not so, not so," said Taddeo, kissing the ring. "To us it cannot but be
a precious treasure."

Perhaps while he acted thus, Taddeo thought not only of his friend, but
of the woman who had preserved him from death.

Taddeo left.

Fifteen days after his reaching home, all Sorrento put on its holiday
attire. The church of the town, splendidly decorated, the lighted
torches, the people in their gala dresses, all announced that some
remarkable event was about to take place in the village. The bells rung
loud peals, and young girls dressed in white, with flowers in their
hands, stood on the church portico. Certainly a great event was about to
take place. The _White Rose of Sorrento_ was about to be married to a
French nobleman of high rank, _Henri Marquis de Maulear_.

About noon there was a rumor among the crowd in front of the church that
the bridal party were near. All hurried to meet them, and Aminta was
seen leaning on her brother's arm, while the Marquis escorted Signora
Rovero.

The appearance of the beautiful young girl, whiter than her veil, paler
than the flowers which adorned her brow, produced a general sensation of
admiration. Mingled with this, however, was a kind of sadness, when the
melancholy on her brow was observed. The Marquis seemed also to be ill
at ease, and to suffer under the influence of feelings which on such a
day were strange indeed. All care, all anxiety should be lost in the