"The women of Florence," he said to himself bitterly,
"are not to be compared with those of Venice." But even if they had
been, the necessity of keeping quiet, for a time at least, would have
prevented the Prince from taking advantage of his enforced sojourn in
the fair city.
On this particular evening, the Prince's sombre meditations were
interrupted by a song. The song apparently came from the same building
in which his suite of rooms were situated, and from an open window some
distance below him. What caught his attention was the fact that the
song was Venetian, and the voice that sang it was the rich mellow voice
of Venice.
There were other exiles, then, beside himself. He peered over the edge
of the balcony perched like an eagle's nest high above the narrow stone
street, and endeavoured to locate the open window from which the song
came, or, better still, to catch a glimpse of the singer.
For a time he was unsuccessful, but at last his patience was rewarded.
On a balcony to the right, and some distance below his own, there
appeared the most beautiful girl even he had ever seen. The dark, oval
face was so distinctly Venetian that he almost persuaded himself he had
met her in his native town.
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