One evening, as they assembled as usual, Roland remarked a something like unusual excitement amongst them; and learned that from a letter they had received that morning, they were about to leave Naples the next day. There seemed some mystery in the reason, and a kind of reserve in even alluding to it, which made Cashel half suspect that they had been told who he was, and that a dislike to further intercourse had suggested the departure. It was the feeling that never left him by day or night, that dogged his waking and haunted his dreams,--that he was one to be shunned and avoided by his fellow-men. His pride, long dormant, arose under the supposed slight, and he was about to say a cold farewell, when the elder of the party, whose name was Sidney, said,-- “How I wish you were going with us!” “Whither to?” said Cashel, hurriedly. “To Venice--say, is this possible?” “I am free to turn my steps in any direction,--too free, for I have neither course to sail nor harbor to reach.” “Come with us, then, Roland,” cried they all, “and our journey will be delightful.” “But why do you start so hurriedly? What is there to draw you from this at the very brightest season of the year?” “There is rather that which draws us to Venice,” said Sidney, coloring slightly? “but this is our secret, and you shall not hear it till we are on our way.” Roland's curiosity was not exacting; he asked no more: nor was it till they had proceeded some days on their journey that Sidney confided to him the sudden cause of their journey, which he did in the few words.-- “La Ninetta is at Venice,--she is at the 'Fenice.'” “But who is La Ninetta? You forgot that you are speaking to one who lives out of the world.” “Not know La Ninetta!” exclaimed he; “never have seen her?” “Never even heard of her.” To the pause which the shock of the first astonishment imposed there now succeeded a burst of enthusiastic description, in which the three youths vied with each other who should be most eloquent in praise. Her beauty, her gracefulness, the witching fascination of her movements, the enchanting captivation of her smile, were themes they never wearied of. Nor was it till he had suffered the enthusiasm to take its course that they would listen to his calm question,-- “Is she an actress?” “She is the first _Ballarina_ of the world,” cried one. “None ever did, nor ever will, dance like her.” “They say she is a _Prima Donna_ too; but how could such excellence be united in one creature?”