“Hist, Contessa!” whispered the singer of the gondola; “you will not leave me so suddenly?”
“I cannot converse with a stranger, though he be masked,” answered the lady, “for it is not carnival time.”
“You jest, beautiful Antonia,” replied the cavalier. “You would not have listened to my serenade had you not recognized my voice.”
“You are right, Count,” said the lady, with a light laugh. “I know you. But be brief; for my uncle is within, and I dare not delay. Why are you here?”
“Why, Antonia? Do you ask me? I am going to quit Venice to-night: it is like quitting hope, for I know not when I shall see you again.”
“Then you will not be at Rome at the carnival? I am going thither with my uncle,” said the lady.
“If I dared,” muttered the cavalier with hesitation. “But it shall be so, Antonia—I will brave every thing. At Rome, then, we will meet again—at the carnival.”
“Fail not!” said the Venetian lady.
“I will meet you again if I live,” replied the cavalier passionately. “And if I die, why, my spirit shall be with you.”
Here a slight sound was heard from the apartment behind the balcony. The lady wished her lover a hasty good-night, and vanished. The serenader gave an order to his attendant in a low voice, and as the light barque shot from the gloomy shadow of the palace into a bright streak of moonlight, a voice from the stern commenced the favorite “buona notte” of the Venetian gondoliers. The youth and maiden were the Count Carriale and the beautiful Contessa Antonia Gazella. We shall rejoin them at the carnival.