gnor Rovero, confiding your promise, I informed
the minister that, consulting with prudent reflections, you would accept
the pardon offered by the King. You are free, and can now accompany me."

"Let us hurry to my mother, Monsieur," said Taddeo, casting one last
look on the chapel walls, which had shut up so much sorrow, happiness
and torment. He followed the Marquis. An hour afterwards two gentlemen
on noble English steeds--the best the stables of the Marquis
afforded--rode toward Sorrento. One of these riders, Rovero, was
melancholy, so that even the French amiability of the Marquis could not
divert him from gloomy meditations. Ever and anon a smile hung on his
lips, till chased away by some painful memory. The Marquis de Maulear,
satisfied that Taddeo concealed a secret from him, avoided any allusion
to it, with the delicacy and good taste which above all things fears
indiscretion. He feigned to attribute to the reserve of a new
acquaintance his companion's coldness and absence of mind. For his own
part, delighted at being able to restore this prodigal son to the
parental roof, anxious to see her whom he loved (to whom, relying on
Taddeo's promise, he had gone the evening before to announce her
brother's return), he could scarcely repress his delight.

"Signor," said he to Taddeo, at a moment when the state of the road
forced them to slacken their pace, "we have arranged all: we have left
the festivities and pleasures of Naples, and have nothing to say of your
suffering and captivity."

"Not one word, Monsieur, if you please, either of what I have passed
through, or of the sufferings of my friends."

"I think your mother and sister know nothing of what you have undergone.
Had they, their suffering and alarm would have been great. But do not
flatter yourself that the arrest of Count Monte-Leone is unknown to
them. One of the Neapolitan papers informed them yesterday of that fact;
and I do not hide from you, that in my presence, your mother deplored
your unfortunate intimacy with one so adventurous and rash."

"And what said Aminta?" asked Rovero anxiously, as if struck by a
thought, which hitherto had escaped him.

"Signorina said nothing," observed Maulear, with an air of surprise;
"and he heard the news with the most perfect indifference."

"To him she is unchanged," murmured Rovero.

Low as was the tone in which this was uttered, Maulear heard it, and
could not repress the question, which he put with great