Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted exile. To me they
were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know how
I should have supported so long an absence, had I not felt assured that
the faith of Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father died. Life
went from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction,
and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His last faltering accents
whispered repeatedly a blessing on me--alas! how has it been fulfilled!
When I had paid due honors to his remains, and laid them in the tomb of
our ancestors, I arranged briefly my affairs; put them in a posture to
be easily at my command from a distance, and embarked once more, with a
bounding heart, for Genoa.
Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rapture when first, in
the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines rising
almost like clouds above the horizon. The sweet breath of summer just
moved us over the long wavering billows that were rolling us on towards
Genoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a sweet creation of
enchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. I behold the line of
villages and palaces studding its borders. My eye reverted to a
well-known point, and at length, from the confusion of distant objects,
it singled out the villa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck in
the landscape, but glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart.
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