tions; indeed he often declared that the one fault of
the Italian character was its unimaginative fidelity in love-affairs.

"Does a man," he asked, "dine off one dish at a gourmet's banquet? And
why should I restrict myself to one course at the most richly-spread
table in Europe? One must love at least two women to appreciate either;
and, did the silly creatures but know it, a rival becomes them like a
patch."

Sister Mary of the Crucifix, he went on to explain, possessed the very
qualities that Miranda lacked. The daughter of a rich nobleman of
Treviso, she was skilled in music, drawing and all the operations of the
needle, and was early promised in marriage to a young man whose estates
adjoined her father's. The jealousy of a younger sister, who was
secretly in love with the suitor, caused her to accuse Coeur-Volant's
mistress of misconduct and thus broke off the marriage; and the unhappy
girl, repudiated by her bridegroom, was at once despatched to a convent
in Venice. Enraged at her fate, she had repeatedly appealed to the
authorities to release her; but her father's wealth and influence
prevailed against all her efforts. The abbess, however, felt such pity
for her that she was allowed more freedom than the other nuns, with whom
her wit and beauty made her a favourite in spite of her exceptional
privileges. These, as Coeur-Volant hinted, included the liberty of
leaving the convent after night-fall to visit her friends; and he
professed to be one of those whom she had thus honoured. Always eager to
have his good taste ratified by the envy of his friends, he was urgent
with Odo to make the lady's acquaintance, and it was agreed that, on the
first favourable occasion, a meeting should take place at Coeur-Volant's
casino. The weeks elapsed, however, without Odo's hearing further of the
matter, and it had nearly passed from his mind when one August day he
received word that the Marquess hoped for his company that evening.

He was in that mood of careless acquiescence when any novelty invites,
and the heavy warmth of the summer night seemed the accomplice of his
humour. Cloaked and masked, he stepped into his gondola and was swept
rapidly along the Grand Canal and through winding channels to the
Giudecca. It was close on midnight and all Venice was abroad. Gondolas
laden with musicians and hung with coloured lamps lay beneath the palace
windows or drifted out on the oily reaches of the lagoon. There was no
moon, and th