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! "I tell you, again and again, Lancelloti, Carora, or whatever you call yourself," he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper, "that I love this girl fondly: yea, madly; and shall I behold her given up to this chit-face cavalier, and without a struggle?" "Of course not," replied the other, stroking his beard, while his imperturbable gravity formed a strong contrast to the whirlwind of passion which racked the bosom of the monk. "For two years I was her confessor. O, the rapture I have felt in her presence! The exceeding beauty of that young girl has cast a spell upon me: I am no longer myself, the cold-hearted and calm-visaged monk, but a jealous and amorous lover. Curse on this robe! which excites only awe and gloom in the hearts of the young and beautiful. When at confession she knelt before me, was it not rapture to obtain those glimpses of her soft and snowy bosom?" "Ay, truly, it was," responded he of the turban and slippers impatiently. "To look on those bright blue eyes, and the stray, golden curls that shaded the dimpled cheek, to feel those beautiful hands clasped on my knee in prayer, though I dared not touch them. Never before did such a fairy being cross the path of a priest, to wean him from his God, and destroy his peace for ever."