“As for us,” said the Orsini, whom they called Maffio, “we should dread her more than any of you, if the sorcerer spoke truly.” “Again a tale, Maffio,” said Gennaro. “Leave the Borgia alone, who cares to hear of her.” “No, no, Gennaro, let us hear the tale. Go on Maffio.” “Then I’ll fain go to sleep,” said Gennaro. “Faith I could fall asleep standing, when Orsini begins his long tales.” “Signors, ’tis a good tale, though my friend has heard it before. See, now, he has flung himself down on that seat. Well,--well, ’tis but two ears the less. In the fatal battle of Rimini I was wounded; and while lying on the ground, and dying as I thought, Gennaro found me, helped me to horse, and bore me in safety from the field. In the shelter of a wood he was dressing my wounds, and we had both sworn to live and die together, when an aged man, clad in a dress falling to his feet, stood before us. ‘Youths,’ said he, ‘shun the Borgia, go not near Lucrezia, she is death.’ Then he was gone, gone. And the wind thrice whispered the hated name. There--what think you of my tale? See you, Gennaro would not listen to it, because he loveth not to be praised. “A good tale but it does not prove thou shouldst shun the Borgia.” “Whereof in proof, we go to Ferrara to-morrow. Bah! what Venetian need fear the Borgia, while the dreaded lion of Venice can roar? Yet still, sometimes, Signors, I fancy there may be some truth in the prophecy.” “Let us wake Gennaro, let us ask him if he believes in the solemn warning.” “Oh, let him sleep. If he would rather dream than hear my tales, let him dream.” Here the swelling dance music reaching their ears, they gaily sauntered to the palace, and soon the only person in the garden was Gennaro, peacefully sleeping on a marble bench, his head resting on his arm, and his face as tranquil as a little child’s. There is a ripple o’er the dark canal--the reflexions of the colored lamps are all broken up and scattered. ’Tis a gondola, silent and sombre, which, in a little seething of water, stops just below the terrace stairs. Then from it steps a woman all clothed in heavy black; a black mask on her face, a black fan in her hand. Nay, the very cross upon her neck is jet. The gondola from which she has stepped glides silently away, and leaves her standing hesitatingly in the garden. Then she starts as she sees the sleeping face turned towards the moonlight. She moves towards the sleeper, darkly, noiselessly, her shoulders drawn together; she is so desirous she may not be heard, that she might be about to murder him as he sleeps. At last, close to him, she bends over his sleeping face. Her hand is on his forehead. Lower and lower bends her head. Awake, awake! But there is no fear. She has but kissed him. A soft, noiseless kiss. As she moves a few steps from him, her eyes still on his face, her arm is touched. “Signora!” “Thou, Gubetta!” “I fear for thee. Venice may guard thy life, but she cannot save thee from insult.”