It was the same old priest with whom he had seen Hilda, at the

confessional; the same with whom he had talked of her disappearance on

meeting him in the street.

Yet, whatever might be the reason, Kenyon did not now associate this

ecclesiastical personage with the idea of Hilda. His eyes lighted on the

old man, just for an instant, and then returned to the eddying throng of

the Corso, on his minute scrutiny of which depended, for aught he knew,

the sole chance of ever finding any trace of her. There was, about this

moment, a bustle on the other side of the street, the cause of which

Kenyon did not see, nor exert himself to discover. A small party of

soldiers or gendarmes appeared to be concerned in it; they were perhaps

arresting some disorderly character, who, under the influence of an

extra flask of wine, might have reeled across the mystic limitation of

carnival proprieties.

The sculptor heard some people near him talking of the incident.

"That contadina, in a black mask, was a fine figure of a woman."

"She was not amiss," replied a female voice; "but her companion was far

the handsomer figure of the two. Could they be really a peasant and a

contadina, do you imagine?"

"No, no," said the other. "It is some frolic of the Carnival, carried a

little too far."

This conversation might have excited Kenyon's interest; only that, just

as the last words were spoken, he was hit by two missiles, both of a

kind that were flying abundantly on that gay battlefield. One, we are

ashamed to say, was a cauliflower, which, flung by a young man from a

passing carriage, came with a prodigious thump against his shoulder;

the other was a single rosebud, so fresh that it seemed that moment

gathered. It flew from the opposite balcony, smote gently on his lips,

and fell into his hand. He looked upward, and beheld the face of his

lost Hilda!

She was dressed in a white domino, and looked pale and bewildered,

and yet full of tender joy. Moreover, there was a gleam of delicate

mirthfulness in her eyes, which the sculptor had seen there only two or

three times in the course of their acquaintance, but thought it the most

bewitching and fairylike of all Hilda's expressions. That soft, mirthful

smile caused her to melt, as it were, into the wild frolic of the

Carnival, and become not so strange and alien to the scene, as her

unexpected apparition must otherwise have made her.

Meanwhile, the venerable Englishman and his daughters were staring at

poor Hilda in a way that proved them altogether astonished, as well

as inexpressibly shocked, by her sudden intrusion into their private

balcony. They looked,--as, indeed, English people of respectability

would, if an angel were to alight in their circle, without due

introduction from somebody whom they knew, in the court above,--they

looked as if an unpardonable liberty had been taken, and a suitable

apology must be made; after which, the intruder would be expected to

withdraw.




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