Ginevra quivered. Though the stranger was handsome, his appearance had not influenced her; the soft pity in a woman’s heart for miseries that are not ignoble had stifled in Ginevra all other emotions; but to hear a cry of vengeance, to find in that proscribed being an Italian soul, devotion to Napoleon, Corsican generosity!--ah! that was, indeed, too much for her. She looked at the officer with a respectful emotion which shook his heart. For the first time in her life a man had caused her a keen emotion. She now, like other women, put the soul of the stranger on a par with the noble beauty of his features and the happy proportions of his figure, which she admired as an artist. Led by accidental curiosity to pity, from pity to a powerful interest, she came, through that interest, to such profound sensations that she felt she was in danger if she stayed there longer. “Until to-morrow, then,” she said, giving the officer a gentle smile by way of a parting consolation. Seeing that smile, which threw a new light on Ginevra’s features, the stranger forgot all else for an instant. “To-morrow,” he said, sadly; “but to-morrow, Labedoyere--” Ginevra turned, put a finger on her lips, and looked at him, as if to say: “Be calm, be prudent.” And the young man cried out in his own language: “Ah! Dio! che non vorrei vivere dopo averla veduta?--who would not wish to live after seeing her?” The peculiar accent with which he pronounced the words made Ginevra quiver. “Are you Corsican?” she cried, returning toward him with a beating heart. “I was born in Corsica,” he replied; “but I was brought, while very young, to Genoa, and as soon as I was old enough for military service I enlisted.”