But the maiden for whose return the good aunt felt anxious, was not far distant; indeed Flora Francatelli, wearing a thick veil over her head, was already proceeding homeward after a short ramble by the margin of the stream, when the reverie in which she was plunged was interrupted by the sounds of hasty footsteps behind. Ever fearful of treachery since the terrible incident of her imprisonment in the Carmelite Convent, she redoubled her speed, blaming herself for having been beguiled by the beauty of the evening to prolong her walk farther than she intended on setting out—when the increasing haste of the footsteps behind her excited the keenest alarms within her bosom—for she now felt convinced that she was pursued.
The cottage was already in sight, and a hundred paces only separated her from its door, when a well-known voice—a voice which caused every fiber in her heart to thrill with surprise and joy—exclaimed: “Flora! beloved one; fly not! Oh! I could not be deceived in the symmetry of thy form—the graciousness of thy gait—I knew it was thou.”
And in another moment the maiden was clasped in the arms of Francisco, Count of Riverola. Impossible were it to describe the ecstatic bliss of this meeting—a meeting so unexpected on either side: for a minute before, Flora had deemed the young nobleman to be far away, fighting in the cause of the cross, while Francisco was proceeding to make inquiries at the cottage concerning his beloved, but with a heart that scarcely dared nourish a hope of her reappearance.
“Oh! my well-beloved Flora!” exclaimed Francisco; “and are we indeed thus blest, or is it a delusive dream? But tell me, sweet maiden, tell me whether thou hast ceased to think of one, from whose memory thine image has never been absent since the date of thy sudden and mysterious disappearance.”
Flora could not reply in words—her heart was too full for the utterance of her feelings; but as she raised the veil from her charming countenance, the tears of joy which stood upon her long lashes, and the heavenly smile which played upon her lips, and the deep blushes which overspread her cheeks spoke far more eloquently of unaltered affection than all the vows and pledges which might have flowed from the tongue.
“Thou lovest me—lovest me—lovest me still!” exclaimed the enraptured count, again clasping her in his arms, and now imprinting innumerable kisses on her lips, her cheeks, and her fair brow. Hasty explanations speedily ensued, and Francisco now learnt for the first time the cause of Flora’s disappearance—her incarceration in the convent—and the particulars of her release.
“But who could have been the author of that outrage?” exclaimed the count, his cheeks flushing with indignation, and his hand instinctively grasping his sword; “whom could you, sweet maiden, have offended? what fiend thus vented his malignity on thee?”
“Hold, my lord!” cried Flora, in a beseeching tone; “perhaps you——”
And she checked herself abruptly.
“Call me not ‘my lord,’ dearest maiden,” said the count; “to thee I am Francisco, as thou to me art Flora—my own beloved Flora! But wherefore didst thou stop short thus? wherefore not conclude the sentence that was half uttered? Oh, Flora—a terrible suspicion strikes me! Speak—relieve me from the cruel suspicion under which I now labor; was it my sister—my much lamented sister, who did thee that foul wrong?”