"I must not be seen here," he muttered; "but to-morrow, in these gardens,
about this hour. I implore you, for the sake of your father,--his hopes,
fortunes, his very life,--to guard the secret of this interview,--to meet
me again. Adieu!"

He vanished amidst the trees, and was gone,--noiselessly, mysteriously,
as he had come.




CHAPTER IX.

The last words of Peschiera were still ringing in Violante's ears when
Harley appeared in sight, and the sound of his voice dispelled the vague
and dreamy stupor which had crept over her senses. At that voice there
returned the consciousness of a mighty loss, the sting of an intolerable
anguish. To meet Harley there, and thus, seemed impossible. She turned
abruptly away, and hurried towards the horse. Harley called to her by
name, but she would not answer, and only quickened her steps. He paused
a moment in surprise, and then hastened after her.

"Under what strange taboo am I placed?" said he, gayly, as he laid his
hand on her shrinking arm. "I inquire for Helen,--she is ill, and cannot
see me. I come to sun myself in your presence, and you fly me as if gods
and men had set their mark on my brow. Child! child! what is this? You
are weeping?"

"Do not stay me now,--do not speak to me," answerred Violante, through
her stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made towards the house.