Donna Micaela started. He was right, she thought. The mandolin-player meant Giannita. That evening Giannita was at home with her mother, but otherwise she always lived at the summer palace. Donna Micaela had arranged it so since Don Ferrante had been ill.
But Donna Micaela liked the mandolin playing, for whomever it might be meant. It came sweet, and soft, and comforting. She went gently into her room to listen better in the dark and loneliness.
A sweet, strong fragrance met her there. What was it? Her hands began to tremble before she found a candle and a match. On her work-table lay a big, widely opened magnolia-blossom.
On one of the flower petals was pricked: “Who loves me?” And now stood under it: “Gaetano.”
Beside the flower lay a little white book full of love-songs. And there was a mark against one of the little verses:—
“None have known the love that I have brought thee,
Silent, secret, born in midnight’s measure.
All my dreams have stolen forth and sought thee;
Miser-like, the while, I watched my treasure:
Tho’ the priest shall seek to shrive me, dying,