his apartment, while the ladder, now deserted by the Uzcoques, had
been cut and thrown down. Desirous of escaping from this scene of
confusion, the young painter was making his way towards the quay,
close to which his gondola was waiting, when his heart suddenly leaped
within him at the sight of a muffled figure that passed near him, and
in which he thought he recognized the mysterious old woman who had of
late occupied so much of his thoughts. She was followed by a number of
the rabble, who pressed upon her with oaths and curses, asserting that
she was one of the party which had attacked the palace of the
Malipieri.

"I saw her holding the ladder," exclaimed one fellow.

"Nay, she was climbing up it herself," cried a second.

"Strike the foul witch dead!" shouted a score of voices.

The old woman's life was in the greatest peril, when a strange and
unaccountable, but at the same time irresistible impulse, moved
Antonio to go to her rescue. He was forcing his way through the crowd
with this intention, when the object of the popular fury turned her
head towards him. Her veil was for a moment partially drawn aside,
affording a glimpse of her features in profile; and Antonio, still the
slave of his diseased imagination, fancied that her yellow shriveled
features had been metamorphosed into a countenance of regular beauty;
such a countenance, in short, as befitted the graceful and symmetrical
form to which it belonged. Confused and bewildered, the naturally weak
and undecided youth stood deliberating and uncertain whether he should
attempt the rescue, which would have been by no means difficult to
accomplish by the display of a little boldness and promptitude. Whilst