Left alone, Maria began to revolve the matter in her mind; what it could be, what the Duchess could want, whether it was good or evil; at any rate, there was some great secret hidden beneath it; then Isabella was renewing her former confidence in her? She should recover her beloved sister. If she should confide some pleasant news, she would rejoice with her; if some distress, she would console her; it was her guardian angel that had kept her from going to Rome; one ought never to act from impulse; fortune would at last repair its wrongs, the city would again honor her, her friends love and respect her a thousand times more than ever. Gladdened by these pleasant thoughts she could not stay quiet, but wandered about, setting the house in order; then she arranged her hair, dressed herself in her best, and then (I know not whether it is the same with people in other parts of the world, but in Italy, when a great joy takes full possession of us, we must break forth into song) Maria began to sing, no longer Giosafatte, or Barlaam, nor yet the mournful episode of Zerbino and Isabella, but the song—
Mountain maidens, bright and fair,
Whence your course? Your dwelling where?
Down from Alpine heights we come—
Near a grove our cottage lies;
There our parents have their home,
Nature there our wants supplies;
Eve recalls us from the mead
Where our flocks securely feed, &c.[42]
And she had finished all her preparations so quickly that the appointed hour seemed to fly before her, like the butterfly before the child who pursues it so eagerly, while, fluttering from spray to spray of the hedge, it seems to mock at him. Finally the clock struck, and Maria listening intently, with her finger on her lips, counted the strokes, but becoming confused she lost the number, and waited more carefully for the repetition of the sound; but this second time the barking of a dog hindered her from hearing all the strokes, and she remained as uncertain of the hour as before; she went to the window to ask any one who might be passing, but there was no one to be seen; then she tried knocking on the wall to ask her neighbor, who, probably just awakened out of sleep, and provoked at being disturbed, answered crossly: "I don't know." Maria, feeling as if she were enduring the tortures of San Lorenzo on the burning coals, and excited by curiosity, determined to set out, and, if too early, to wait in the open air, walking up and down, for from the intense heat, and her excessive impatience, staying in the house seemed a martyrdom that she could not possibly endure.