“Hear me out,” she said. “Buondlemonte’s interest and inclination, as well as ours, require that he should abandon all thoughts of that unholy union, and take thee to wife. In all, save hypocritical appearances, the Amedi are his enemies—enemies in religion, enemies in disposition. He is frank, open, generous and noble; and they are cold, selfish, subtle and malignant. His faith is pure, and, like us, he sustains the cause of our holy church; while they are Ghibellines—little better than schismatics—and in their hearts detest all who think not with them. If ’twere not a virtue to humble the pride of this presumptuous family, it would at least be a charity to preserve the peace of the noble youth, by disconcerting so ill-assorted a match.” Once more Camilla attempted to be heard, but again she was interrupted. “I will hear no reply,” her mother said: “I cannot be moved by arguments from the course I intend to pursue. Thou knowest me tender and indulgent, but at the same time resolute and determined. Thy happiness and his demand the policy I adopt; let me not hear thee therefore murmur against it. I go now,” she observed, rising from her seat, “to meet him I would make thy husband: bide thou here till my return.” As she concluded she left the apartment. Camilla, at the thought of meeting Buondlemonte, and the circumstances, instinctively drew her veil over her burning cheeks. “It is not I, Francesca,” she murmured, “who plots against thy peace; it is not I, Buondlemonte, who seeks to make thee swerve from thy knightly faith!” For the space of half an hour Camilla Donati remained in a state of timorous apprehension and painful thought; at the expiration of that period, however, the door of the apartment she occupied again opened, and her mother re-entered. This time she was not alone—Buondlemonte was with her. His handsome countenance was flushed with excitement; the color mantled in his cheeks, and an unusual lustre danced in his bright eyes. No sooner did his gaze rest on the maiden’s form than he rushed forward, and, bending his knee before her, took her unresisting hand and pressed it again and again to his lips. “Dearest Camilla!” he exclaimed, in a whispered voice, “even thus have I dreamed of thee in my wanderings! even thus have I knelt before thee, and, unrebuked by a reproachful look, pressed thy gentle hand.” The elder lady approached her daughter, and raising the veil which concealed her beautiful features she addressed Buondlemonte. “This,” she said, as Buondlemonte’s ravished sight wandered from the flushing cheeks to the closed lids and trembling lips, “this is the bride I had reserved for thee. From childhood she has loved thee, and loves thee still.” Buondlemonte’s enraptured exclamations prevented Camilla’s piteous appeal to her mother from being heard.