If anybody had been near, the beatings of poor Filippo's heart might have been heard during the pause that ensued before the door was opened. At length its heavy panels were seen to move, and a sweet, soft, voice was heard:
"Come in, dear Lucretia."
The countess disappeared within; but scarcely had she entered the room before she grasped Laura's arm, and hurried her into the room beyond.
"Not here, not here," whispered she. "Go into your private apartment, Laura. In this one you would be unsafe. There will be listeners at the door."
Laura made no reply; she flew back and disappeared behind the portiere that led into her boudoir. The countess looked back at her page, who leaned trembling against a marble column close by.
"Shut the door, Filippo," said she, "and await me here. I will see the marchioness in her boudoir, and Mademoiselle Victorine will be back presently, to entertain you."
The door was shut, and Filippo, letting Mary Stuart's train drop without further ceremony, sprang forward and touched the arm of his royal mistress.
"Where is she?"
"In her boudoir." The page would have gone thither at once; but
Lucretia stopped him. "Mark my words well. Speak low; and when
Victorine summons you away, obey at once, for delay may cost you
your life. And now, impatient youth, begone!"
They were together. Laura would have sprung forward to meet him, but emotion paralyzed her limbs, and chained her to the floor. He clasped her in his loving arms, kissed her again and again, and each felt the wild throbbing of the other's heart. Forgotten were the long years of their parting, forgotten all doubt, all anguish. It seemed but yesterday that they had plighted their troth in that moonlit pavilion; and nothing lay between, save one long night which now had passed away, leaving the dawn of a day that was radiant with sunshine.