All these matters were finally made up with sermons, threats, entreaties
for forgiveness, promises, vows to never do the like again, and a change
of dormitory for the vestal. I left Zara, light of heart, three days
after this event, horrified at the memory of my second love-affair.

(iii.)

_Story of my third love-affair, which, though it is true history, women
may, if they please, regard as fiction._

After my return to Venice occurred the events which I shall now proceed
to narrate. This third amour was also the last of any essential
importance in my life. During its development the romance and idealism
of my nature, the delicacy of my emotions, seemed to meet with perfect
correspondence in a mistress whose sublime sentiments matched my own.
Why I say _seemed_, will appear in the sequel of this story, out of
which Boccaccio might have formed a first-rate novel. The recital must
be lengthy; but I crave indulgence from my readers, feeling that the
numerous episodes which it contains and the abundance of curious
material deserve a careful handling.

I occupied some little rooms at the top of our house in Venice. Here I
used to sleep, and pass whole days in study. From time to time, while I
was working, an angel's voice arrested my attention, singing melancholy
airs attuned to sad and plaintive melodies. This lovely voice came from
a house which was only divided by a very narrow alley from my apartment.
My windows opened on the house in question; and so it happened, as a
matter of course, that one fine day I caught sight of its possessor
sitting at her window sewing. Leaning at one of my windows, I found
myself so close to the lady that civility obliged me to salute her. She
returned my bow with courteous gravity. It was a young woman of about
seventeen, married, and endowed with all the charms which nature can
confer. Her demeanour was stately; complexion, very white; stature,
middle-sized; the look of her eyes gentle and modest. She was neither
plump nor lean. Her bust presented an agreeable firmness; her arms were
rounded, and she had the most beautiful hands. A scarlet riband bound
her forehead, and was tied in a bow behind her thick and flowing
tresses. On her countenance dwelt a fixed expression of profound
sadness, which compelled attention. In spite of these distinguished
qualities, I was far from engaging my romantic heart upon the spot. My
adventures at Zara were too fresh in my memory, and had taught me s