Bianca, or, as the French called her, Blanche Marie, then left her gaily, and with a light heart was soon asleep. Leonora d'Orco sat quite still by the window, and gazed forth. All was still and tranquil. The air was clear and soft, and yet there seemed a sort of haze--a haze of brightness over the landscape. Have you never remarked, reader, especially in southern climates, that the moon sometimes pours forth her pale rays in such profusion that it seems as if a mist of light spread over the scene? So was it at that moment; and though the nightingale, as Blanche Marie had said, no longer trilled his summer song, yet every now and then a note or two from his sweet voice burst upon the ear--a song, begun as if in memory, and broken off as if in despair. The time of love was past, and he could sing no more; but the remembrance of happy days woke up under the warm autumn splendour, and a few short plaintive notes came welling from the fountains of regret. Of what was the young maiden thinking? What feelings woke up in her bosom under that bright moon? What harmonious chord vibrated in her bosom to the broken tones of the solitary songster of the night? Gaze down into a deep, deep well, reader, and if you gaze long enough, you will catch an uncertain gleam of light, you know not whence, glistening upon the surface of waters below you; but you cannot fathom those waters with the eye, nor see aught that they cover; and so it is with the heart of woman to those who would scan it from a distance. If you would know what is beneath, plunge down into its depths, torch in hand; you may perish, but you will know all that can be known of that most deep, mysterious thing. At length there was the sound of a light footstep on the terrace beneath, and Leonora started and listened. The foot that produced the sound was still distant, and she quietly glided through the open door into her cousin's chamber. Blanche Marie was already sleeping peacefully, the light covering hardly veiling the contour of the young beautiful limbs, the hair already escaped from the net intended to restrain it, and the white uncovered arm cast negligently under the warm, rosy cheek. Her breathing was soft, and low, and even, and the half-open lips showed the pearly teeth between. "How beautiful she is!" murmured Leonora; "and how sweet and gentle she looks! So looked Psyche;" and with a noiseless step she left the room, and closed the door behind her. She took her seat near the window again, behind the rich deep moulding, as if she would see without being seen; but the lighted taper on the table cast her shadow across without her knowing it; and there she sat, and once more listened. The step was very, very near now, and the next instant it stopped beneath the window. Then came a silent pause for a moment, and Leonora's heart beat. "Bianca," said the voice of Lorenzo, "is that you, dear cousin?"