In my sadness of heart I thought of my childhood and old Domenica, whom
I had not seen for many months. I went out to the Campagna. Domenica had
died six months back! When I returned I was seized by a violent fever,
from which I recovered but slowly. It was six months after Flaminia had
taken the veil that the doctor allowed me to go out.

My first walk was to the grey convent where she now passed her
monotonous days. Every evening I returned, and often I stood gazing at
her prison and thinking of Flaminia as I used to know her. One evening
Fabiani found me thus, and made me follow him home. He spoke to me with
unusual solemnity in his voice, but with great kindness. I was ill.
Travelling, change of scene, would do me good. I was to move about for a
year, and then return to show what the world had made of me.

I went to Venice. Dreary, sad and quiet seemed to me the Queen of the
Adriatic. In the gently swaying gondola I thought with bitterness of
Annunciata. I felt a grudge even against innocent, pious Flaminia, who
preferred the convent to my strong, brotherly love. Then my thoughts
floated between Lara, the image of beauty, and Santa, the daughter of
sin.

One day I took a boat to the Lido to breathe the fresh air of the sea.
On the beach I came across Poggio, a young Venetian nobleman with whom I
had made friends; and as a storm hung threatening in the sky I decided
to accept his invitation for dinner. We watched the fury of the storm
from the window, and then joined a crowd of women and children anxiously
watching a fishing boat out at sea. Before our very eyes the boat was
swallowed by the waves, and with aching hearts we witnessed the prayers,
shrieks, and despair of the anxious watchers whose husbands and fathers