What does this mysterious woman think as her head droops? Truly she should be insulted, all breathing men and women, and small children even, abhor her name. Yet she was not born to such a fate. But the past, the past, who shall recall the past. And then the vision of an aged man, clad in a robe falling to the ground in heavy folds, comes before her, and she trembles. As she looks on the sleeper, she asks herself how long was it since she had slept so peacefully? “Thou gazest upon the youth, Signora. Vainly have I sought to learn the reason of thy secret journey from Ferrara here to Venice--perhaps this youth.” “Thou seek to read my acts--thou! Leave me.” The man--a fair-looking man enough--bowed, and with quiet, measured steps withdrew. Then she came back to the sleeping man. “How beautiful he is,” she thought. Never in her dreams had she imagined him so beautiful. She almost cried with rapture as she looked on him. Was this love? Yes. Guilty love? Nay; wait and read. Should she wake him? No. She removed her mask to wipe away her tears (fallen to good purpose--as nearly all tears fall), and in those few moments her face was seen--not by the youth upon the marble seat, but by the scowling eyes of a tall, haughty-looking man, glaring from a treacherous gondola, which had quietly stolen up, under cover of the night, and there lay still below the terrace. Beside him stood a mean-looking creature whom he called Rustighello. “It is she!” “Truly, Signor.” “And the youth, who is he?” “A poor adventurer, without parents or country; people say he is brave.” “What will not people say, good Rustighello? Try every art to lure him to Ferrara, and to me--” “There is no need for art. By chance, he will set out with Gruirani for Ferrara.” Slowly the gondola stole away with its watching secret. “Sleep, sleep, poor youth, and good dreams wait on you. For me are naught but sleepless nights and bitter watching.” She stooped again to kiss him. He woke. “Heavens! whom do I see?” “I pray thee let me go!” “Nay, nay, fair lady. On my faith--” “Again I do implore thee, let me pass.” “Nay, but a moment to admire thee, for I feel thou’rt beautiful. Oh! be not afraid, I will not harm thee.” “Surely not, Gennaro.” “What! thou knowest me?” “And thou couldst love me!” “Who could not love the owner of so sweet a voice?” “And thou couldst love me, Gennaro?” “Surely, but not so dearly as I love one other I could name.” “And she--and she?” “Is my mother.” “Thy mother! Oh my Gennaro, thou dost love her?” And she trembles greatly, this unknown woman. “I love her as I love my life.” “And thinkst thou she loves thee?” “Alas! I never saw her.” “And yet thou lovest her?” “It is a wretched tale which I do hide from all; but ah! to thee it seems that I must tell it; for in thy face I read thou hast a noble soul.” “A noble soul!”