A soft moonlight distinctly discovered the spot to which Gonsalva had directed him six days before. He saw the steep romantic bank shading the road towards which he now turned his steps: as he trod it lightly, the smell of orange flowers and wild thyme, came mingling from the hills and the gardens. While his eyes were fixed on the windows of the tower, where perhaps Gonsalva slept, some low tender sounds caught his ear: he listened, but they had ceased; the next moment they returned again; drawing gently nearer he found they proceeded from a lute which some one was touching at intervals with an unsteady hand, another pause succeeded: he stood still, and scarcely respired; for now the voice of Gonsalva was heard singing this canzonet. “Hast thou, a sleepless pillow prest, And vainly, vainly sought for rest? Ah! say, have sighs and tears confess’d That love was kindling in thy breast? Alas! if not, why dost thou fly To haunt my gate, my path, mine eye, Still looking as thou wanderest nigh A world of fond idolatry? O cease, if vanity should be The only aim that leads to me; O cease, while yet my heart is free From hope, and fear, and love, and thee!” Rapt, enchanted, Sebastian stood listening to this celestial voice: its thrilling tones revolving in continual sweetness but endless variety, were like the melodious warblings of a nightingale. The serene Heavens, the resplendent moonlight, the fragrance of the earth, the transport and the gratitude of his own heart, all conspired to heighten its magical effect. Donna Gonsalva had evidently chosen this song because it pourtrayed a situation like her own; this thought finished the intoxication of Sebastian, and he vehemently exclaimed, “Angel!” At this expression, Gonsalva dropped her lute, and flying forward, uttered a cry of pleasure. “Ah, is it you, ungrateful Fabian!” she cried: her beauty and her emotion completed the conquest over her sovereign. She was without a veil, and he now beheld for the first time, all the charms of that matchless face: traces of tears were on it. Scarcely conscious of the extreme joy he betrayed, the king uttered a passionate expression at this visible mark of sensibility; and forcing his way up the bank through shrubs and roots of trees, got sufficiently near the object of his tenderness to kiss her hand from the window. The night breeze blowing among his fine hair, and the moon beams falling on his white forehead, gave lustre and animation to the noblest countenance that ever yet united sublimity with beauty: Donna Gonsalva evidently beheld him with admiration.