he Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak,
stepped out within reach of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the
verge of the giddy descent, plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an
instant afterwards, he stood with the still living and breathing
child within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the
Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the drenching water, became unfastened,
and, falling in folds about his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken
spectators the graceful person of a very young man, with the sound of
whose name the greater part of Europe was then ringing.

No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive
her child--she will press it to her heart--she will cling to its little
form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas! _another's_ arms have
taken it from the stranger--_another's_ arms have taken it away, and
borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa! Her
lip--her beautiful lip trembles: tears are gathering in her eyes--those
eyes which, like Pliny's acanthus, are "soft and almost liquid." Yes!
tears are gathering in those eyes--and see! the entire woman thrills
throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor
of the marble countenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very
purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a tide
of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder quivers about her delicate
frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver lilies in the
grass.

Why _should_ that lady blush! To this demand there is no answer--except
that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of a mother's heart,
the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she has neglected to enthral her tiny
feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to throw over her Venetian
shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason
could there have been for her so blushing?--for the glance of those wild
appealing eyes? for the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom?--for the
convulsive pressure of that trembling hand?--that hand which fell,
as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of the
stranger. What reason could there have been for the low--the singularly
low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in
bidding him adieu? "Thou hast conquered," she said, or the murmurs of
the water deceived me; "thou hast conquered--one hour after sunrise--we
shall meet--so let it be!"

*