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By Root 604 0

Antonia withdrew from her mother’s chamber with regret, and, till the door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own apartment: her heart was filled with bitterness. It seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility, when she was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft music breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, she ventured to look out. By the light of the moon she perceived several men below with guitars and lutes in their hands; and at a little distance from them stood another wrapped in his cloak, whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to Lorenzo’s. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was indeed Lorenzo himself, who, bound by his word not to present himself to Antonia without his uncle’s consent, endeavoured, by occasional serenades, to convince his mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to her. She was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring lady, she grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.

The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with the state of Antonia’s mind, and she listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following words:

SERENADE.

Chorus.

Oh! breathe in gentle strain, my lyre!

’Tis here that beauty loves to rest:

Describe the pangs of fond desire,

Which rend a faithful lover’s breast.

Song.

In every heart to find a slave,

In every soul to fix his reign,

In bonds to lead the wise and brave,

And make the captives kiss his chain;

Such is the power of Love, and oh!

I grieve so well Love’s power to know.

In sighs to pass the live-long day,

To taste a short and broken sleep,

For one dear object far away,

All others scorned, to watch and weep;

Such are the pains of Love, and oh!

I grieve so well Love’s pains to know.

To read consent in virgin eyes,

To press the lip ne’er prest till then,

To hear the sigh of transport rise,

And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again;

Such are thy pleasures, Love! But oh!

When shall my heart thy pleasures know?

Chorus.

Now hush, my lyre! My voice, be still!

Sleep, gentle maid! May fond desire

With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,

Though still my voice, and hushed my lyre!

The music ceased: the performers dispersed, and silence prevailed through the street. Antonia quitted the window with regret. She, as usual, recommended her self to the protection of St. Rosolia, said her accustomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.

It was almost two o’clock before the lustful monk ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia’s dwelling. It has been already mentioned, that the abbey was at no great distance from the strada di San Iago. He reached the house unobserved. Here he stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s suspecting him to be her daughter’s ravisher. On the other hand it was suggested, that she could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown women. This latter argument was perfectly false. He knew not how uncertain is the