"Ta, ta, ta, ta!" sang Clarina, on the four octaves of the same note,
leaping from one to the next with the ease of a nightingale.

"In spite of that voice, which would make your patron saint Clara
envious, you are really too impudent, you rascally hussy!"

"You have not brought me up to listen to such abuse," said she, with
some pride.

"Have I brought you up to hide a man in your bed? You are unworthy
alike of my generosity and of my hatred--"

"A man in my bed!" exclaimed Clarina, hastily looking round.

"And after daring to eat our supper, as if he were at home," added the
Duke.

"But am I not at home?" cried Emilio. "I am the Prince of Varese; this
palace is mine."

As he spoke, Emilio sat up in bed, his handsome and noble Venetian
head framed in the flowing hangings.

At first Clarina laughed--one of those irrepressible fits of laughter
which seize a girl when she meets with an adventure comic beyond all
conception. But her laughter ceased as she saw the young man, who, as
has been said, was remarkably handsome, though but lightly attired;
the madness that possessed Emilio seized her, too, and, as she had no
one to adore, no sense of reason bridled her sudden fancy--a Sicilian
woman in love.