“Irene!” echoed Adrian in surprise, forgetful at the moment that he had before revealed the name of her he sought—“Irene—Irene di Gabrini, sister of the once renowned Rienzi!”
“The same,” replied Mariana, quickly; “I know her, as I told you. Nay, Signor, I do not deceive thee. It is true that I cannot bring thee to her; but better as it is,—she went away many days ago to one of the towns of Lombardy, which, they say, the Pestilence has not yet pierced. Now, noble sir, is not your heart lightened? and will you so soon be a deserter from the Court of Loveliness; and perhaps,” she added, with a soft look from her large dark eyes, “of Love?”
“Dare I, in truth, believe you, Lady?” said Adrian, all delighted, yet still half doubting.
“Would I deceive a true lover, as methinks you are? Be assured. Nay, Queen, receive your subject.”
The Queen extended her hand to Adrian, and led him to the group that still stood on the grass at a little distance. They welcomed him as a brother, and soon forgave his abstracted courtesies, in compliment to his good mien and illustrious name.
The Queen clapped her hands, and the party again ranged themselves on the sward. Each lady beside each gallant. “You, Mariana, if not fatigued,” said the Queen, “shall take the lute and silence these noisy grasshoppers, which chirp about us with as much pretension as if they were nightingales. Sing, sweet subject, sing; and let it be the song our dear friend, Signor Visdomini, (I know not if this be the same Visdomini who, three years afterwards, with one of the Medici, conducted so gallant a reinforcement to Scarperia, then besieged by Visconti d’Oleggio.) made for a kind of inaugural anthem to such as we admitted to our court.”
Mariana, who had reclined herself by the side of Adrian, took up the lute, and, after a short prelude, sung the words thus imperfectly translated:—
The Song of the Florentine Lady.
Enjoy the more the smiles of noon If doubtful be the morrow; And know the Fort of Life is soon Betray’d to Death by Sorrow!
Death claims us all—then, Grief, away! We’ll own no meaner master; The clouds that darken round the day But bring the night the faster.