grew. He imagined he found a sort of animation in the floods, which played so softly round his breast, and already at noon he felt impatient for the coolness of the evening, to immerge in the bosom of the waters.
Giulio walked slowly along the shore, towards some bushes, from which a pleasant lawn stretched itself into the sea. Here he left his garments, and renewed his delightful sport. Never, he thought, the floods had played so warmly, so lovingly, round his limbs. It was as if out of every little wave, there rose a flattering voice; the waters, sparkling in changing colours in the last rays of the sun, appeared to him like a thousand mirrors, presenting smiling eyes and divine forms to his enchanted soul. But, lo! how he started, when suddenly he beheld close to him a woman of such heavenly beauty, that if he at first in his dreams had taken the phantoms of his imagination for beings of substance, he now mistook reality for a vision. But the idea of the dangerous situation wherein the fair one was placed, recalled his senses; he clasped his arms round her slender limbs, a grateful fascinating glance gave him strength, he swam towards the shore, where he soon beheld his delightful burthen in safety; here he left her in order that he might procure his garments. Having thrown his mantle over his shoulder, he rejoined the fair being, who had, in the mean time, repaired the disorder of her dress, which, in the splendour and brightness of its appearance, seemed to consist of the silver foam of the sea. On his approach, she fell on her knees and embraced his feet, with looks full of gratitude and love. He raised her hastily, and full of respect, asked to know whom he had had the happiness to save, and whence she came? A tear clouded her eye; she shook her head, laid her finger on her mouth, as if to say she was deprived of the power of speech, and pointed in answer to his question with her white hand to the sea. He addressed her in different languages, but although she seemed to understand him perfectly well, she remained silent.
Giulio led the unknown lady to the Castle. The family received her with politeness; but the Countess and her daughters, envious of the more than human beauty of the stranger, treated her with a degree of reserve bordering on coolness. They contrived, nevertheless, to give her the assistance her misfortune seemed to require. Giulio’s heart was now the seat of the most ardent passion; the image of the silent lady never left his fancy for a moment. He endeavoured, in a thousand different ways, to induce her to utter a single sound, but all in vain; neither was she able to answer to his questions written in different idioms. “Do you write no language?” asked he—No! was the sense of her replying gesture. The mother of Giulio made some contemptuous reflections respecting the education of the mysterious lady, but she, by her gentle and humble behaviour, attempted to soften the haughty spirit of the Countess, and succeeded. She even gave proof of a more refined education, in once taking a lute, and drawing from it the most celestial tones. All the deep feelings, which her eyes expressed, seemed now to have found a corresponding language. The sounds fell on the listeners’ ears like an unknown mysterious harmony of a better world, and filled their hearts with delight and rapture. Inclining over her lute, she often
