The Morning broke, not, as in the North, slowly and through shadow, but with the sudden glory with which in those climates Day leaps upon earth—­like a giant from his sleep.  A sudden smile—­a burnished glow—­and night had vanished.  Adrian still slept; not a muscle seemed to have stirred; the sleep was even heavier than before; the silence became a burthen upon the air.  Now, in that exceeding torpor so like unto death, the solitary watcher became alarmed and terrified.  Time passed—­morning glided to noon—­still not a sound nor motion.  The sun was midway in Heaven—­the Friar came not.  And now again touching Adrian’s pulse, she felt no flutter—­she gazed on him, appalled and confounded; surely nought living could be so still and pale.  “Was it indeed sleep, might it not be—­” She turned away, sick and frozen; her tongue clove to her lips.  Why did the father tarry?—­she would go to him—­she would learn the worst—­she could forbear no longer.  She glanced over the scroll the Monk had left her:  “From sunrise,” it said, “I shall be at the Convent of the Dominicans.  Death has stricken many of the brethren.”  The Convent was at some distance, but she knew the spot, and fear would wing her steps.  She gave one wistful look at the sleeper and rushed from the house.  “I shall see thee again presently,” she murmured.  Alas! what hope can calculate beyond the moment?  And who shall claim the tenure of ‘The Again?’

It was not many minutes after Irene had left the room, ere, with a long sigh, Adrian opened his eyes—­an altered and another man; the fever was gone, the reviving pulse beat low indeed, but calm.  His mind was once more master of his body, and, though weak and feeble, the danger was past, and life and intellect regained.

“I have slept long,” he muttered; “and oh, such dreams!  And methought I saw Irene, but could not speak to her, and while I attempted to grasp her, her face changed, her form dilated, and I was in the clutch of the foul gravedigger.  It is late—­the sun is high—­I must be up and stirring.  Irene is in Lombardy.  No, no; that was a lie, a wicked lie; she is at Florence, I must renew my search.”

As this duty came to his remembrance, he rose from the bed—­he was amazed at his own debility:  at first he could not stand without support from the wall; by degrees, however, he so far regained the mastery of his limbs as to walk, though with effort and pain.  A ravening hunger preyed upon him, he found some scanty and light food in the chamber, which he devoured eagerly.  And with scarce less eagerness laved his enfeebled form and haggard face with the water that stood at hand.  He now felt refreshed and invigorated, and began to indue his garments, which he found thrown on a heap beside the bed.  He gazed with surprise and a kind of self-compassion upon his emaciated hands and shrunken limbs, and began now to comprehend that he must have had some severe but unconscious illness.  “Alone, too,” thought he; “no one near to tend me!  Nature my only nurse!  But alas! alas! how long a time may thus have been wasted, and my adored Irene—­quick, quick, not a moment more will I lose.”