“Hace mal tiempo,—the weather looks gloomy,” said she, in a faint voice.
“And if not here, Maritaña, where then?” said he, in a low tone.
“In our own deep forests, beneath the liana and the cedar; where the mimosa blossoms, and the acacia scents the air; where fountains are springing, and the glow-worm shines like a star in the dark grass. Oh, not here! not here!” cried she, plaintively.
“Then in Italy, Maritaña mia, where all that the tropics can boast is blended with whatever is beautiful. In art; where genius goes hand-in-hand with nature; and where life floats calmly on, like some smooth-flowing river, unruffled and unbroken.”
A faint, low sigh escaped her, and her lips parted with a smile of surpassing loveliness.
“Yes, dearest—there, with me, beside the blue waters of the Adriatic, or lost amid the chestnut forests of the Apennines. Think of those glorious cities, too, where the once great still live, enshrined by memory, in their own palace walls. Think of Venice—”
The word was not well uttered, when, with a shrill scream, she started up and awoke.
“Who spoke to me of my shame? Who spoke of Venice?” cried she, in accents of wild terror.
“Be calm, Maritaña. It was a dream,—nothing but a dream,” said Linton, pressing her gently down again. “Do not think more of it.”
“Where am I?” said she, drawing a long breath.