A little before the appointed hour, she stole unobserved through the trees, opened the little gate, and found herself in the quiet solitary lane. In a few minutes, a female figure came up, with a quick light step; and, throwing aside her vail, said, with a sort of wild, suppressed energy, "It is you! I was truly told. Beautiful!--beautiful! And, oh! what youth and what bloom!" The voice dropped mournfully; and Violante, surprised by the tone, and blushing under the praise, remained a moment silent; then she said, with some hesitation-- "You are, I presume, the Marchesa di Negra? And I have heard of you enough to induce me to trust you." "Of me! From whom?" asked Beatrice, almost fiercely. "From Mr. Leslie, and--and--" "Go on--why falter?" "From Lord L'Estrange." "From no one else?" "Not that I remember." Beatrice sighed heavily, and let fall her vail. Some foot-passengers now came up the lane; and seeing two ladies, of mien so remarkable, turned round, and gazed curiously. "We can not talk here," said Beatrice impatiently; "and I have so much to say--so much to know. Trust me yet more; it is for yourself I speak. My carriage waits yonder. Come home with me--I will not detain you an hour; and I will bring you back." This proposition startled Violante. She retreated toward the gate, with a gesture of dissent. Beatrice laid her hand on the girl's arm, and again lifting her vail, gazed at her with a look, half of scorn, half of admiration. "I, too, would once have recoiled from one step beyond the formal line by which the world divides liberty from woman. Now--see how bold I am. Child, child, do not trifle with your destiny. You may never again have the same occasion offered to you. It is not only to meet you that I am here; I must know something of you--something of your heart. Why shrink?--is not the heart pure?" Violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled the questioner it rebuked. "I may restore to Italy your father," said Beatrice, with an altered voice. "Come!" Violante approached, but still hesitatingly. "Not by union with your brother?" "You dread that so much, then?" "Dread it? No! Why should I dread what is in my power to reject. But if you can really restore my father, and by nobler means, you may save me for--" Violante stopped abruptly; the Marchesa's eyes sparkled. "Save you for--ah! I can guess what you leave unsaid. But come, come--more strangers--see; you shall tell me all at my own house. And if you can make one sacrifice, why, I will save you all else. Come, or farewell forever!" Violante placed her hand in Beatrice's, with a frank confidence that brought the accusing blood into the Marchesa's cheek. "We are women both," said Violante; "we descend from the same noble house; we have knelt alike to the same Virgin Mother; why should I not believe and trust you?"