“Thus sang th’ unletter’d Swain to th’ oaks and rills,
While the still morn went forth with sandals gray,
And now the sun had stretch’d out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay.” —
Milton.

From the summit of a mountain, the morning light shewed the travellers the distant lake of Celano, gleaming at the feet of other lofty mountains of the Appennine, far in the south. Thither Vivaldi judged it prudent to direct his course, for the lake lay so remote from the immediate way to Naples, and from the neighbourhood of San Stefano, that it’s banks promised a secure retreat. He considered, also, that among the convents scattered along those delightful banks, might easily be found a priest, who would solemnize their nuptials, should Ellena consent to an immediate marriage.

The travellers descended among olive woods, and soon after were directed by some peasants at work, into a road that leads from Aquila to the town of Celano, one of the very few roads which intrudes among the wild mountains, that on every side sequester the lake. As they approached the low grounds, the scent of orange blossoms breathed upon the morning air, and the spicy myrtle sent forth all its fragrance from among the cliffs, which it thickly tusted. Bowers of lemon and orange spread along the valley; and among the cabins of the peasants, who cultivated them, Vivaldi hoped to obtain repose and refreshment for Ellena.

The cottages, however, at which Paulo enquired were unoccupied, the owners being all gone forth to their labour: and the travellers, again ascending, found themselves soon after among mountains inhabited by the flocks, where the scent of the orange was exchanged for the aromatic perfume of the pasturage.

“My Signor!” said Paulo, “is not that a shepherd’s horn sounding at a distance? If so, the Signora may yet obtain some refreshment.”

While Vivaldi listened, a hautboy and a pastoral drum were heard considerably nearer.

They followed the sound over the turf, and came within view of a cabin, sheltered from the sun by a tust of almond trees. It was a dairy-cabin belonging to some shepherds, who at a short distance were watching their flocks, and, stretched beneath the shade of chestnuts, were amusing themselves by playing upon these rural instruments; a scene of Arcadian manners frequent at this day, upon the mountains of Abruzzo. The simplicity of their appearance, approaching to wildness, was tempered by a hospitable spirit. A venerable man, the chief shepherd, advanced to meet the strangers; and, learning their wants, conducted them into his cool cabin, where cream, cheese made of goat’s milk, honey extracted from the delicious herbage of the mountains, and dried figs were quickly placed before them.

Ellena, overcome with the fatigue of anxiety, rather than that of travelling, retired, when she had taken breakfast, for an hour’s repose; while Vivaldi rested on the bench before the cottage, and Paulo, keeping watch, discussed his breakfast, together with the circumstances of the late alarm, under the shade of the almond trees.

When Ellena again appeared, Vivaldi proposed, that they should rest here during the intense heat of the day; and, since he now considered her to be in a place of temporary safety, he ventured to renew the subject nearest his heart; to represent the evils, that might overtake them, and to urge an immediate solemnization of their marriage.

Thoughtful and dejected, Ellena attended for some time in silence to the arguments and pleadings of Vivaldi. She secretly acknowledged the justness of his representations, but she shrunk, more than ever, from the indelicacy, the degradation of intruding herself into his family; a family, too, from whom she had not only received proofs of strong dislike, but had suffered terrible injustice, and been menaced with still severer cruelty. These latter circumstances, however, released her from all obligations of delicacy or generosity, so far as concerned only the authors of her suffering; and she had now but to consider the happiness of Vivaldi and herself. Yet she could not decide thus precipitately on a subject, which so solemnly involved the fortune of her whole life; nor forbear reminding Vivaldi, affectionately, gratefully, as she loved him, of the circumstances which with-held her decision.

“Tell me yourself,” said she, “whether I ought to give my hand, while your family — your mother” — She paused, and blushed, and burst into tears.

“Spare me the view of those tears,” said Vivaldi, “and a recollection of the circumstances that excite them. O, let me not think of my mother, while I see you weep! Let me not remember, that her injustice and cruelty destined you to perpetual sorrow!”

Vivaldi’s features became slightly convulsed, while he spoke; he rose, paced the room with quick steps, and then quitted it, and walked under the shade of the trees in front of the cabin.

In a few moments, however, he commanded his emotion and returned. Again he placed himself on the bench beside Ellena, and taking her hand, said solemnly, and in a voice of extreme sensibility, “Ellena, you have long witnessed how dear you are to me; you cannot doubt my love; you have long since promised — solemnly promised, in the presence of her who is now no more, but whose spirit may even at this moment look down upon us, — of her, who bequeathed you to my tenderest care, to be mine for ever. By these sacred truths, by these affecting recollections! I conjure you, abandon me not to despair, nor in the energy of a just resentment, sacrifice the son to the cruel and mistaken policy of the mother! You, nor I, can conjecture the machinations, which may be spread for us, when it shall be known that you have left San Stefano. If we delay to exchange our vows, I know, and I feel — that you are lost to me for ever!”

Ellena was affected, and for some moments unable to reply. At length, drying her tears, she said tenderly, “Resentment can have no influence on my conduct towards you; I think I feel none towards the Marchesa — for she is your mother. But pride, insulted pride, has a right to dictate, and ought to be obeyed; and the time is now, perhaps, arrived when, if I would respect myself, I must renounce you.” —

“Renounce me!” interrupted Vivaldi, “renounce me! And is it, then, possible you could renounce me?” he repeated, his eyes still fixed upon her face with eagerness and consternation. “Tell me at once, Ellena, is it possible?”

“I fear it is not,” she replied.

“You fear! alas! if you fear, it is too possible, and I have lost you already! Say, O! say but, that you hope it is not, and I, too, will hope again.”

The anguish, with which he uttered this, awakened all her tenderness, and, forgetting the reserve she had imposed upon herself, and every half-formed resolution, she said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, “I will neither fear nor hope in this instance; I will obey the dictates of gratitude, of affection, and will believe that I never can renounce you, while you are unchanged.”

“Believe!” repeated Vivaldi, “only believe! And why that mention of gratitude; and why that unnecessary reservation? Yet even this assurance, feebly as it sustains my hopes, is extorted; you see my misery, and from pity, from gratitude, not affection, would assuage it. Besides, you will neither fear, nor hope! Ah, Ellena! did love ever yet exist without fear — and without hope? O! never, never! I fear and hope with such rapid transition; every assurance, every look of yours gives such force either to the one, or to the other, that I suffer unceasing anxiety. Why, too, that cold, that heart-breaking mention of gratitude? No, Ellena! it is too certain that you do not love me! — My mother’s cruelty has estranged your heart from me!”

“How much you mistake!” said Ellena. “You have already received sacred testimonies of my regard; if you doubt their sincerity, pardon me, if I so far respect myself as to forbear entreating you will believe them.”

“How calm, how indifferent, how circumspect, how prudent!” exclaimed Vivaldi in tones of mournful reproach. “But I will not distress you; forgive me for renewing this subject at this time. It was my intention to be silent till you should have reached a place of more permanent security than this; but how was it possible, with such anxiety pressing upon my heart, to persevere in that design. And what have I gained by departing from it? — increase of anxiety — of doubt — of fear!”

“Why will you persist in such self-in-flictions?” said Ellena. “I cannot endure that you should doubt my affection, even for a moment. And how can you suppose it possible, that I ever can become insensible of your’s; that I can ever forget the imminent danger you have voluntarily incurred for my release, or, remembering it, can cease to feel the warmest gratitude?”

“That is the very word which tortures me beyond all others!” said Vivaldi; “is it then, only a sense of obligation you own for me? O! rather say you hate me, than suffer me to deceive my hopes with assurances of a sentiment so cold, so circumscribed, so dutiful as that of gratitude!”

“With me the word has a very different acceptation,” replied Ellena smiling. “I understand it to imply all that is tender and generous in affection; and the sense of duty which you say it includes, is one of the sweetest and most sacred feelings of the human heart.”

“Ah Ellena! I am too willing to be deceived, to examine your definition rigorously; yet I believe it is your smile, rather than the accuracy of your explanation, that persuades me to a confidence in your affection; and I will trust, that the gratitude you feel is thus tender and comprehensive. But, I beseech you, name the word no more! Its sound is like the touch of the Torpedo, I perceive my confidence chilled even while I listen to my own pronunciation of it.”

The entrance of Paulo interrupted the conversation, who advancing with an air of mystery and alarm, said in a low voice,

“Signor! as I kept watch under the almond trees, who should I see mounting up the road from the valley yonder, but the two bare-footed Carmelites, that overtook us in the pass of Chiari! I lost them again behind the woods, but I dare say they are coming this way, for the moment they spy out this dairy-hut, they will guess something good is to be had here; and the shepherds would believe their flocks would all die, if” — “I see them at this moment emerging from the woods,” said Vivaldi, “and now, they are leaving the road and crossing this way. Where is our host, Paulo!

“He is without, at a little distance, Signor. Shall I call him?”

“Yes,” replied Vivaldi, “or, stay; I will call him myself. Yet, if they see me” — “Aye, Signor; or, for that matter, if they see me. But we cannot help ourselves now; for if we call the host, we shall betray ourselves, and, if we do not call him, he will betray us; so they must find us out, be it as it may.”

“Peace! peace! let me think a moment,” said Vivaldi. While Vivaldi undertook to think, Paulo was peeping about for a hiding place, if occasion should require one.

“Call our host immediately,” said Vivaldi, “I must speak with him.”

“He passes the lattice at this instant,” said Ellena.

Paulo obeyed, and the shepherd entered the cabin.

“My good friend,” said Vivaldi, “I must entreat that you will not admit those friars, whom you see coming this way, nor suffer them to know what guests you have. They have been very troublesome to us already, on the road; I will reward you for any loss their sudden departure may occasion you.”

“Nay for that matter, friend,” said Paulo, “it is their visit only that can occasion you loss, begging the Signor’s pardon; their departure never occasioned loss to any body. And to tell you the truth, for my master will not speak out, we were obliged to look pretty sharply about us, while they bore us company, or we have reason to think our pockets would have been the lighter. They are designing people, friend, take my word for it; banditti, perhaps, in disguise. The dress of a Carmelite would suit their purpose, at this time of the pilgrimage. So be pretty blunt with them, if they want to come in here; and you will do well, when they go, to send somebody to watch which way they take, and see them clear off, or you may lose a stray lamb, perhaps.”

The old shepherd lifted up his eyes and hands, “To see how the world goes!” said he. “But thank you, Maestro, for your warning; they shall not come within my threshold, for all their holy seeming, and its the first time in my life I ever said nay to one of their garb, and mine has been a pretty long one, as you may guess, perhaps, by my face. How old, Signor, should you take me to be? I warrant you will guess short of the matter tho’; for on these high mountains” — “I will guess when you have dismissed the travellers,” said Vivaldi, “after having given them some hasty refreshment without; they must be almost at the door, by this time. Dispatch, friend.”

“If they should fall foul upon me, for refusing them entrance,” said the shepherd, “you will come out to help me, Signor? for my lads are at some distance.”

Vivaldi assured him that they would, and he left the cabin.

Paulo ventured to peep at the lattice, on what might be going forward without. “They are gone round to the door, Signor, I fancy,” said he, “for I see nothing of them this way; if there was but another window! What foolish people to build a cottage with no window near the door! But I must listen.”

He stepped on tip-toe to the door, and bent his head in attention.

“They are certainly spies from the monastery,” said Ellena to Vivaldi, “they follow us so closely! If they were pilgrims, it is improbable, too, that their way should be through this unfrequented region, and still more so, that they should not travel in a larger party. When my absence was discovered, these people were sent, no doubt, in pursuit of me, and having met the devotees whom we passed, they were enabled to follow our route.”

“We shall do well to act upon this supposition,” replied Vivaldi, “but, though I am inclined to believe them emissaries from San Stefano, it is not improbable that they are only Carmelites returning to some convent on the lake of Celano.”

“I cannot hear a syllable, Signor,” said Paulo. “Pray do listen yourself! and there is not a single chink in this door to afford one consolation. Well! if ever I build a cottage, there shall be a window near — “ “Listen!” said Vivaldi.

“Not a single word, Signor!” cried Paulo, after a pause, “I do not even hear a voice! — But now I hear steps, and they are coming to the door, too; they shall find it no easy matter to open it, though;” he added, placing himself against it. “Ay, ay, you may knock, friend, till your arm aches, and kick and lay about you — no matter for that.”

“Silence! let us know who it is,” said Vivaldi; and the old shepherd’s voice was heard without. “They are gone, Signors,” said he, “you may open the door.”

“Which way did they go?” asked Vivaldi, when the man entered. “I cannot say, as to that, Signor, because I did not happen to see them at all; and I have been looking all about, too.”

“Why, I saw them myself, crossing this way from the wood yonder,” said Paulo.

“And there is nothing to shelter them from our view between the wood, and this cottage, friend,” added Vivaldi; “What can they have done with themselves?”

“For that matter, gone into the wood again, perhaps,” said the shepherd.

Paulo gave his master a significant look, and added, “It is likely enough, friend; and you may depend upon it they are lurking there for no good purpose, You will do well to send somebody to look after them; your flocks will suffer for it, else. Depend upon it, they design no good.”

“We are not used to such sort of folks in these parts,” replied the shepherd, “but if they mean any harm, they shall find we can help ourselves.” As he concluded, he took down a horn from the roof, and blew a shrill blast that made the mountains echo; when immediately the younger shepherds were seen running from various quarters towards the cottage.

“Do not be alarmed, friend,” said Vivaldi, “these travellers mean you no harm, I dare say, whatever they may design against us. But, as I think them suspicious persons, and should not like to overtake them on the road, I will reward one of your lads if you will let him go a little ways towards Celano, and examine whether they are lurking on that route.”

The old man consented, and, when the shepherds came up, one of them received directions from Vivaldi.

“And be sure you do not return, till you have found them,” added Paulo.

“No master,” replied the lad, “and I will bring them safe here, you may trust me.”

“If you do, friend, you will get your head broke for your trouble. You are only to discover where they are, and to watch where they go,” said Paulo.

Vivaldi, at length, made the lad comprehend what was required of him, and he departed; while the old shepherd went out to keep guard.

The time of his absence was passed in various conjectures by the party in the cabin, concerning the Carmelites. Vivaldi still inclined to believe they were honest people returning from a pilgrimage, but Paulo was decidedly against this opinion. “They are waiting for us on the road, you may depend upon it, Signor,” said the latter. “You may be certain they have some great design in hand, or they would never have turned their steps from this dairy-house when once they had spied it, and that they did spy it, we are sure.”

“But if they have in hand the great design you speak of, Paulo,” said Vivaldi, “it is probable that they have spied us also, by their taking this obscure road. Now it must have occurred to them when they saw a dairy-hut, in so solitary a region, that we might probably be found within — yet they have not examined. It appears, therefore, they have no design against us. What can you answer to this Paulo? I trust the apprehensions of Signora di Rosalba are unfounded.

“Why! do you suppose, Signor, they would attack us when we were safe housed, and had these good shepherds to lend us a helping hand? No, Signor, they would not even have shewn themselves, if they could have helped it; and being once sure we were here, they would skulk back to the woods, and lurk for us in the road they knew we must go, since, as it happens, there is only one.”

“How is it possible,” said Ellena, “that they can have discovered us here, since they did not approach the cabin to enquire.”

“They came near enough for their purpose, Signora, I dare say; and, if the truth were known, they spied my face looking at them through the lattice.”

“Come, come,” said Vivaldi, “you are an ingenious tormento............