"In three days," thought I, "I shall be married——"
"To Laura Molina," said a voice near me.
I started: some one had spoken, but not to me. I was near the portal of St. Sabina, and looked inquiringly at the stone figure of Bruno of Cologne—could it have addressed me? No one appeared: I paused and listened.
"And this girl is beautiful, say you?" asked a voice.
"Lancelloti, thou canst not conceive such loveliness."
"I would compliment your taste, signor, could I but find you," I muttered, grasping my poniard.
"Again I say, Lancelloti——'
"Sword of Omar! you forget: my name is Osman Carora," replied the second speaker. "I am a respectable Mahometan. Corpo di Baccho! I swear by turban and beard,—yea, by Mahomet!——"
"Silence, fool! and hear me whisper."
"Either Petronio spoke just now, or Satan himself!" thought I, looking cautiously about me; having a laudable curiosity to discover those good people who took such an interest in my affairs. I retired within the deep portal at the moment that two men stood before it in the full blaze of the moonlight, and I could distinctly hear all that passed. One was a short, squat, villainous-looking fellow, whose red vest, yellow trousers, turban, brass pistols, and sabre declared him to be an Italian renegade, acting under the Algerine flag in the double capacity of pirate and smuggler. The other was the immaculate Petronio, whose breast was the repository of half the female secrets in the city—Petronio, the paragon of Cosenza,—the man of holiness, and of God!