"No, indeed, no! Sacramento! come to anchor, will you? The moon is on the wane; La Syla is growing dark, the land-breeze is coming, and the _Crescent_ lies close to under the Campo di Mare, with jib and foresail loose: I must sail by daybreak, if I would keep clear of the British fleet; which my prince of crookbacks, Gaspare Truffi, says, stood down the Straits of Messina last evening." "Right before the wind, with studding-sails and royals," said a hideous hunchback, whom I had not before observed; "and if this breeze continues——" "Peace, imp of darkness! and sheer off," said the pirate, grasping a pistol. The hunchback growled, and withdrew. "Prythee, make an end, Petronio, and say for what purpose you have brought my handsome shipmate and me hither. A priest in love is—bah! in time you will tire of this baby-faced girl." "Tired!" exclaimed the priest— "O, no! I ne’er shall tire of the unwearying flame. But I am weary, kind and cruel dame, With tears that uselessly and ceaseless flow. Scorning myself, and scorned by you, I long For death!——" "Pshaw! you are mad," cried the pirate, with angry impatience; "quoting the sonnets of Petrarch like a day-dreaming student, when you should act like a man of mettle. Here I am, at your service, mine ancient friend and gossip,—Frà Lancellotti once, now Osman Carora, of the brave xebecque _Crescent_, in the service of his sublime puissance the Bey of Tripoli. Thou seest that, while at the summit of my oriental dignity, I have not forgotten thee: but speak to the purpose. That d——d British fleet—quick—thy project——" "Is—but come this way!" They moved forward; I paused for a moment, rooted to the spot by astonishment; and when I darted from the shadow of the porch, lo! they were gone; nor priest nor pirate could I see, though the bright moonlight still shone in full splendour on the tall windows and marble columns of St. Sabina. The _project_—the very essence of the matter—I had not yet learned; O, diavolo! On every side I searched, but saw them no more; and, with a heart full of anger and apprehension, I returned to my temporary residence in the city. "And this is the sainted Petronio!" I exclaimed; "in love with my Laura, and leaguing with pirates to rob me of her: curse on his presumptuous soul! The podesta shall hear of what this night has revealed, and he shall drag forth to justice this wolf in sheep’s clothing." But recollecting that my single assertion could not pull down the mighty fabric of Petronio’s fame, I resolved to be calm, and watch narrowly: three days more would see Laura in my arms, when I might laugh at the friar, his passion, and his projects. Fool that I was, to be outwitted by a villainous monk, after such a warning! Laura’s dismissal of her sanctified confessor was sufficiently accounted for: a dubious glance or word had, doubtless, offended her delicate sensibility, and his visits had been dispensed with for ever.