It was a day in spring. The soft air, laden with the fragrance of flowers, stole in at the draperied windows of Cornaro’s princely mansion, and rustled in the leaves of the choice plants ranged within. In the apartment to which we before introduced the reader, sat a fair girl, holding a book in her hand, but evidently too much absorbed in melancholy thought to notice its contents. She was reclining upon a couch in an attitude of the deepest dejection. Her face was very pale, and bore the traces of recent tears. As the bell rang, and the door was opened by the domestic, she started up and clasped her hands with an expression of the most lively alarm. But when a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, entered the room, she ran towards him, and throwing herself into his arms, wept and sobbed on his bosom.
“Leonora! my beloved!” cried the youth; “For heaven’s sake, tell me what has happened!”
“Oh, Giuseppe!” she answered, as soon as she could speak for weeping, “We are lost! My father has discovered all!”
“Alas! and his anger has not spared thee!”
“No—Giuseppe! He has pardoned me; thou art the destined victim! Stay—let me tell thee all—and quickly; for the moments are precious! The Marchese di Rossi, thou knowest, has sought my hand. He saw thee descend last night from my window.”
“He knows, then, of our secret marriage?”
“No—he knows nothing; but seeing thee leave my chamber at night, he gave information this morning to my uncle, the Bishop.”
“The villain! he shall rue this!” muttered Tartini, grasping the hilt of his weapon.
“Oh, think not of punishing him! it will but ruin all! Fly—fly—before my uncle——”
“Tell me all that has happened.”