“I know not,” replied Flora, weeping; “but—alas! pardon me, dear Francisco—if I suspect aught so bad of any one connected with thee—and yet Heaven knows how freely, how sincerely I forgive my enemy——” Her voice was lost in sobs; and her head drooped on her lover’s breast.
“Weep not, dearest one!” exclaimed Francisco. “Let not our meeting be rendered mournful with tears. Thou knowest, perhaps, that Nisida disappeared as suddenly and as mysteriously as thou didst; but could she also have become the victim of the Carmelites? And did she, alas! perish in the ruins of the convent?”
“I am well assured that the Lady Nisida was not doomed to that fate,” answered Flora; “for had she been consigned to the convent, as a punishment for some real offense, or on some groundless charge, she must have passed the ordeal of the chamber of penitence, where I should have seen her. Yes, Francisco—I have heard of her mysterious disappearance, and I have shed many, many tears when I have thought of her, poor lady! although,” added the maiden in a low and plaintive tone, “I fear, Francisco, that it was indeed she who doomed me to that monastic dungeon. Doubtless, her keen perception—far more keen than in those who are blessed with the faculties which were lost to her—enabled her to penetrate the secret of that affection with which you had honored me, and in which I felt so much happiness.”
“I confessed my love to Nisida,” interrupted Francisco; “but it was not until your disappearance I was driven to despair, Flora. I was mad with grief, and I could not, neither did I, attempt to conceal my emotion. I told Nisida all: and well—oh! well—do I recollect the reply which she gave me, giving fond assurance that my happiness would alone be consulted.”
“Alas! Was there no double meaning in that assurance?” asked Flora, gently. “The Lady Nisida knew well how inconsistent with your high rank—your proud fortunes—your great name, was that love which you bore for a humble and obscure girl——”
“A love which I shall not be ashamed to own in the sight of all Florence,” exclaimed Francisco in an impassioned tone. “But if Nisida were the cause of that cruel outrage on thee, my Flora, we will forgive her—for she could have acted only through conscientious, though most mistaken, motives. Mistaken, indeed! for never could I have known happiness again hadst thou not been restored to me. It was to wean my mind from pondering on afflictions that goaded me to despair that I embarked in the cause of Christendom against the encroachments of Moslem power. Thinking that thou wast forever lost to me—that my sister also had become the victim of some murderous hand,—harassed by doubts the most cruel—an uncertainty the most agonizing,—I sought death on the walls of Rhodes; but the destroying angel’s arrow rebounded from my corselet—his sword was broken against my shield!
“During my voyage back to Italy—after beholding the crescent planted on the walls where the Christian standard had floated for so many, many years—a storm overtook the ship; and yet the destroying angel gave me not the death I courted. This evening I once more set foot in Florence. From my own mansion Nisida is still absent: and no tidings have been received of her. Alas! is she then lost to me forever? Without tarrying even to change my travel-soiled clothes, I set out to make inquiries concerning another whom I love—and that other is thyself! Here, thanks to a merciful Heaven, my heart has not been doomed to experience a second and equally cruel disappointment; for I have found thee at last, my Flora—and henceforth my arm shall protect thee from peril.”
“How have I deserved so much kindness at thine hands?” murmured the maiden, again drooping her blushing head. “And oh! what will you think, Francisco—what will you say, when you learn that I was there—there in that cottage—with my aunt—when you called the last time to inquire if any tidings had been received of me——”
“You were there!” exclaimed Francisco, starting back in surprise not unmingled with anger; “you were there, Flora—and you knew that I was in despair concerning thee—that I would have given worlds to have heard of thy safety,—I, who thought that some fiend in human shape had sent thee to an early grave?”
“Forgive me, Francisco: forgive me!” cried Flora, bursting into tears; “but it was not my fault! On the night following the one in which the banditti stormed the convent, as I ere now detailed to your ears, I returned home to my aunt. When the excitement of our meeting was past, and when we were alone together, I threw myself at her feet, confessed all that had passed between thee and me, and implored her advice.