in his legacy on the
Pincian Mount. In this instance only did the natural affection of the
father prevail over the acquired severity of the reformer. Here he
condescended, for the first and the last time, to the sweet
trivialities of youth. Here, indulgent in spite of himself, he fixed
his little household, and permitted to his daughter her sole
recreations of tending the flowers in the garden and luxuriating in the
loveliness of the distant view.

* * * * *

The night has advanced an hour since the occurrence mentioned in the
preceding chapter. The clear and brilliant moonlight of Italy now
pervades every district of the glorious city, and bathes in its pure
effulgence the groves and palaces on the Pincian Mount. From the
garden of Numerian the irregular buildings of the great suburbs of
Rome, the rich undulating country beyond, and the long ranges of
mountains in the distance, are now all visible in the soft and
luxurious light. Near the spot which commands this view, not a living
creature is to be seen on a first examination; but on a more
industrious and patient observation, you are subsequently able to
detect at one of the windows of Numerian's house, half hidden by a
curtain, the figure of a young girl.

Soon this solitary form approaches nearer to the eye. The moonbeams,
that have hitherto shone only upon the window, now illuminate other
objects. First they display a small, white arm; then a light, simple
robe; then a fair, graceful neck; and finally a bright, youthful,
innocent face, directed steadfastly towards the wide moon-brightened
prospect of the distant mountains.

For some time the girl remains in contemplation at her window. Then
she leaves her post, and almost immediately reappears at a door leading
into the garden. Her figure, as she advances towards the lawn before
her, is light and small--a natural grace and propriety appear in her
movements--she holds pressed to her bosom and half concealed by her
robe, a gilt lute. When she reaches a turf bank commanding the same
view as the window, she arranges her instrument upon her knees, and
with something of restraint in her manner gently touches the chords.
Then, as if alarmed at the sound she has produced, she glances
anxiously around her, apparently fearful of being overheard. Her
large, dark, lustrous eyes have in them an expression of apprehension;
her delicate lips are half parted; a sudden flush rises in her