Poor Blanka sat at her window with eyes fixed on a certain corner, around which she had the day before seen Manasseh Adorjan's form disappear.

The clocks struck twelve, thirteen, fourteen--by Italian reckoning of time; the crowds began to thin, and at last every one seemed to have betaken himself to St.Peter's.

An open carriage halted in the now deserted street in front of the hotel, and Blanka recognised in its occupant the very person whose image had been so persistently before her mind's eye.
"Pardon me, princess, for intruding," began Manasseh in greeting, as he entered the young lady's presence; "but yesterday I saw that you were disappointed at not being able to attend the Easter service at St.
Peter's.

I have found means to remove that disappointment, I hope." The princess felt her pulse quicken with eager delight, while at the same time she shrank back in nameless apprehension of what the young man might be going to propose.
"I fear it is too late," she replied, quietly.

"I am not even dressed for the occasion." "You have time enough," returned the other, reassuringly.