"No wonder. Your dishonest people can never believe one can do an act of pure conscience. But here comes the Neapolitan.—Note the libertine, Gelsomina, and thou wilt feel for him the same disgust as I!"
The door opened, and Don Camillo Monforte entered. There was an appearance of distrust in his manner, which proved that he did not expect to meet his bride. Gelsomina arose, and, though bewildered by the tale of her cousin, and her own previous impressions, she stood resembling a meek statue of modesty, awaiting his approach. The Neapolitan was evidently struck by her beauty, and the simplicity of her air, but his brow was fixed, like that of a man who had steeled his feelings against deceit.
"Thou would'st see me?" he said.
"I had that wish, noble Signore, but—Annina—"
"Seeing another, thy mind hath changed."
"Signore, it has."
Don Camillo looked at her earnestly, and with manly regret.
"Thou art young for thy vocation—here is gold. Retire as thou earnest.—But hold—dost thou know this Annina?"
"She is my mother's sister's daughter, noble Duca.
"Per Diana! a worthy sisterhood! Depart together, for I have no need of either. But mark me," and as he spoke, Don Camillo took Annina by the arm, and led her aside, when he continued with a low but menacing voice—"Thou seest I am to be feared, as well as thy Councils. Thou canst not cross the threshold of thy father without my knowledge. If prudent, thou wilt teach thy tongue discretion. Do as thou wilt, I fear thee not; but remember, prudence."