The wide folding-doors which led into the passage were open.
Verezzi observed Matilda, as she gazed fixedly through them, to grow pale.
He could not see the cause, as he was seated on a sofa at the other end of the saloon.
Suddenly she started from her seat; her whole frame seemed convulsed by agitation, as she rushed through the door.
Verezzi heard an agitated voice exclaim, “Go! go!—to-morrow morning!”
Matilda returned. She seated herself again at the harp, which she had quitted, and essayed to compose herself; but it was in vain, she was too much agitated.
Her voice, as she again attempted to sing, refused to perform its office; and her humid hands, as they swept the strings of the harp, violently trembled.
“Matilda,” said Verezzi, in a sympathising tone, “what has agitated you? Make me a repository of your sorrows; I would, if possible, alleviate them.”
“Oh, no,” said Matilda, affecting unconcern, “nothing—nothing has happened. I was even myself unconscious that I appeared agitated.”
Verezzi affected to believe her, and assumed a composure which he felt not. The conversation changed, and Matilda assumed her wonted mien. The lateness of the hour at last warned them to separate.