her beautiful
figure, he gave a sigh,--one of those a man inadvertently heaves when
contemplating some rare object in a shop-window, which his means forbid
him to purchase. It was only as he heaved a second and far deeper one,
that she looked up, and with an arch drollery of expression all her own,
said, as if answering him, "Yes, you are quite right; but you know you
could n't afford it."

"What do you mean,--not afford what?" cried he, blushing deeply.

"Nor could I, either," continued she, heedless of his interruption.

"Faith, then," cried he, with energy, "it was just what I was thinking
of."

"But, after all," said she, gravely, "it wouldn't do; privateers must
never sail in company. I believe there's nothing truer than that."

He continued to look at her, with a strange mixture of admiration and
astonishment.

"And so," said she, rising, "let us part good friends, who may hope each
to serve the other one of these days. Is that a bargain?" And she held
out her hand.

"I swear to it!" cried he, pressing his lips to her fingers. "And now
that you know my sentiments--"

"Hush!" cried she, with a gesture of warning, for she heard the voices
of servants in the corridor. "Trust me; and good-bye!"

"One ought always to have an Irishman amongst one's admirers," said she,
as, once more alone, she arranged her ringlets before the glass; "if
there's any fighting to be done, he's sure not to fail you."

CHAPTER XXIV. A DAY IN EARLY SPRING

That twilight of the year called spring, most delightful of all seasons,
is scarcely known in Italy. Winter dies languidly away, and summer
bursts forth at once, and in a few days the trees are clothed in full
foliage, the tall grass is waving, and panting lizards sun themselves on
the rocks over which so lately the mountain torrent was foaming. There
are, however, a few days of transition, and these are inexpressibly
delicious. The balmy air scented with the rose and the violet stirs
gently through the olive-trees, shaking the golden limes amidst the dark
leaves, and carrying away the sweet perfume on its breath; rivulets run
bright and clear through rocky channels, mingling their murmurs with the
early cicala. The acacia sheds its perfume on the breeze,--a breeze so
faint, as though it loved to linger on its way; and so, above, the lazy
clouds hang upon the mountains, or float in fragments out to sea, as day
wears on. What vitality there is in it all!--the rustling leav