of her movements and of all around, upon one of the scattered fragments of
ancient pride that at every turn are visible in the streets of Rome. The
place was quiet and solitary, and darkened by the shadows of a palace that
reared itself close beside. She sat down; and shrouding her face as it
drooped over her breast, endeavoured to collect her thoughts. Presently
the sound of a guitar was heard; and along the street came a little group
of the itinerant musicians who invest modern Italy with its yet living air
of poetry: the reality is gone, but the spirit lingers. They stopped
opposite a small house; and Lucilla, looking up, saw the figure of a young
girl placing a light at the window as a signal well known, and then she
glided away. Meanwhile, the lover (who had accompanied the musicians, and
seemed in no very elevated rank of life) stood bare-headed beneath; and in
his upward look there was a devotion, a fondness, a respect, that brought
back to Lucilla all the unsparing bitterness of contrast and recollection.
And now the serenade began. The air was inexpressibly soft and touching,
and the words were steeped in that vague melancholy which is inseparable
from the tenderness, if not from the passion, of love. Lucilla listened
involuntarily, and the charm slowly wrought its effect. The hardness and
confusion of her mind melted gradually away, and as the song ended she
turned aside and burst into tears. "Happy, happy girl!" she murmured;
"she is loved!"

Here let us drop the curtain upon Lucilla. Often, O Reader! shalt thou
recall this picture; often shalt thou see her before thee--alone and
broken-hearted--weeping in the twilight streets of Rome!

CHAPTER XLIII.

LOVE STRONG AS DEATH, AND NOT LESS BITTER.