She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and inquired the cause with her usual frankness and simplicity.  I could not evade the inquiry, for my heart was full to aching.  I told her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, my bitter self-upbraiding.  “Yes!” said I, “I am unworthy of you.  I am an offcast from my family—­a wanderer—­a nameless, homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty for my portion, and yet I have dared to love you—­have dared to aspire to your love!”

My agitation moved her to tears; but she saw nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had depicted it.  Brought up in a convent, she knew nothing of the world, its wants, its cares;—­and, indeed, what woman is a worldly casuist in matters of the heart!—­Nay, more—­she kindled into a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes and myself.  We had dwelt together on the works of the famous masters.  I had related to her their histories; the high reputation, the influence, the magnificence to which they had attained;—­the companions of princes, the favorites of kings, the pride and boast of nations.  All this she applied to me.  Her love saw nothing in their greatest productions that I was not able to achieve; and when I saw the lovely creature glow with fervor, and her whole countenance radiant with the visions of my glory, which seemed breaking upon her, I was snatched up for the moment into the heaven of her own imagination.

I am dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet I cannot help Lingering over a period of my life, on which, with all its cares and conflicts, I look back with fondness; for as yet my soul was unstained by a crime.  I do not know what might have been the result of this struggle between pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan gazette an account of the sudden death of my brother.  It was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning me, and a prayer, should this notice meet my eye, that I would hasten to Naples, to comfort an infirm and afflicted father.

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition; but my brother had never been as a brother to me; I had long considered myself as disconnected from him, and his death caused me but little emotion.  The thoughts of my father, infirm and suffering, touched me, however, to the quick; and when I thought of him, that lofty, magnificent being, now bowed down and desolate, and suing to me for comfort, all my resentment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow of filial affection was awakened within me.

The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all others was transport at the sudden change in my whole fortunes.  A home—­a name—­a rank—­wealth awaited me; and love painted a still more rapturous prospect in the distance.  I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her feet.  “Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “at length I can claim you for my own.  I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected outcast.  Look—­read, behold the tidings that restore me to my name and to myself!”