Far away among the mountains, the sunlight
loves to linger, and the moonbeam is wont to dwell
among the quiet recesses of a lovely valley overshadowed
by rugged steeps, that frown above and
darken around a calm and silvery lake, embosomed
amid the solitudes of the wild forest hills.

Around on every side, arise the hills, magnifi
cent with the shade of the sombre pine, leafy
with the branching oak, or verdant with the luxuriance
of the green chesnut tree, while chasms
yawn in the sunlight, ravines darken, and fearful
rocks, bare and rugged in their outline, tower
far above the forest trees, away into the clear
azure of the summer sky.

The hills sweep round the valley in a circular
form, describing the outlines of the sides of a
drinking goblet, while far below, the limpid waters
of the lake, repose in the depths of this collossal
vessel, giving a clue to the strange name of
this place of solitude—The Valley of the
Bowl.

This quiet vale is situated some few miles from
Florence, amid the same wild range of mountains
that encircle the haunt of the members of the
Holy Steel.

The light of the summer morning sun, was
streaming gaily over the roofs of a wild mountain
hamlet, clustered beside the shores of the lake,
flinging its golden beams over the outline of each
rugged hut, with tottering walls, or rustic tenement,
with its ancient stones overgrown with
leafy vines, when a group of peasants were gathered
along the roadside, at some small distance
from the village, in earnest and energetic conversation.

A short, thick-set and bow-legged youth, clad
in the garish apparel of a Postillion of the olden
times, stood in the centre of the group, while
around him were clustered a circle of the buxom
mountain damsels, with their heads inclined towards
each other, their arms and hands moving
in animated gestures, as a boisterous chorus broke
on the air, from the glib prattling of their busy
tongues.

“Now, Dolabella,” said the young man to a
tall, black-eyed, dark-haired damsel, of a very
swarthy skin; “now, Dolabella, it's in vain you
try to make a fool of me. I don't believe any such
thing—that's all.”

Having thus spoken, he searched earnestly with
his finger along his chin, and at last discovered
a starved fragment of beard, which he pulled with
great gravity, at the same time looking intently
upwards, as if bent on discovering the evening
star in broad day-light.

“Well! our Lady take care of your wits, good
Signior Rattlebrain,” thus answered the buxom

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Dolabella, “whether you believe it or not, makes
not a whit of difference to me. But I tell you,
Theresa, and you, Loretta, that last night, just
about dark, as I was walking near you cottage
on the hill, with a beech tree on one side, and a
chestnut on the other—”

“What!” interrupted the small, hazed-eyed Loretta,
“mean you the cottage which the tall, strange
old woman hired but yesterday?”

“The very same. Well, just as I was walking
there, all alone, I heard a footstep!—”

“Our Lady!” exclaimed Theresa, who was distinguished
by hair of glowing red.

“Our Lady!—but you do not say so?” exclaimed
the other.

“I heard a footstep, and stepping aside into the
bushes, I saw a dark looking monk enter the cottage,
and he was followed by a big, rough soldier;
and he was followed by such a handsome cavalier,
dressed in such a gay dress, and O! bless ye all—
he wore such a fine, dancing feather in his cap!
Upon my word, it waved like a sunbeam in the
evening twilight!”

“What colour were his eyes?” asked Loretta.

“Was he tall or short?” inquired Theresa.

“I suppose you will say next, that he had a
manly figure? eh?” and the youth pulled his
slouched hat fiercely over his right ear, and then
halting on one leg, he threw the other forward,
while with his arms placed akimbo, he seemed
waiting for somebody or other to take his portrait.

“To be sure he had a manly figure,” returned
Dolabella, glancing contemptuously at the bow-legged
youth; “he was none of your whipper-snapping,
strutting, and boasting postillions; he
was none of your conceited—”

“Dolabella!” exclaimed the youth in a pathetic
tone.

“Well, Signior Francisco?”

“Dolabella, do you see the convent of St. Benedict
yonder?”

He pointed to the dark and time-worn walls of
the monastery, which rising among the forest-trees
on the western side of the lake, was crected
on the height of a precipitous cliff, that arose in
rugged grandeur from the bosom of the mountain
waters.

The cheerful sunbeam was shining over the
dark towers of the monastery, over the surrounding
forest-trees, and along the recesses of the gardens,
that varied the appearance of the wild-wood
beyond the ancient walls, and the white cliff gave
its broad surface to the light of day, yet there was
an air of gloom resting upon the entire view, the
dark towers, the white cliff, and the luxuriant gardens,
while the reflection of the scene in the deep
and mirror-like waters of the lake, was so calm,
so clear, so perfect in the faintest outline, that it
looked more like the creation of an artist's pencil,
than a landscape of the living world.

As the pompous Francisco pointed to the dark
walls of the monastery, an involuntary thrill ran
around the group of peasant damsels, and there
was a pause of strange silence for a single moment.

“The Monastery of St. Benedict!” murmured
Dolabella, “Francisco, fear you not to make you
strange house the subject of your jests, even in
broad daylight? The cheek of the boldest peasant
of these mountains grows pale at the mention of
yon gloomy fabric!”

“'Tis said the ancient Dukes of Florence held
strange festivals within those dark grey walls in
the olden time.”

“Even now, no one knows anything concerning
the monks of this monastery. They give to the
mountain poor with a free hand and a liberal
blessing—yet, beshrew me, strange rumors are
abroad, and muttered whispers speak of midnight
orgies that it would shame an honest maiden to
name, held within yon darksome house!”

“I jest not!” exclaimed the postillion; “I jest
not. I am in earnest—by the True Cross, am I.
Did you ever hear of the legend of yon whitened
precipice? How a desperate youth threw himself
from the rock, down into the ravine—and—and—
mark me—if on some very bright and agreeable
morning I should be found laying at the foot of
the awful steep, scattered into a thousand fragments—
then think of the victim of your perfidy,
Dolabella. And you, Theresa, and you, Loretta,
think of the miserable fate of Francisco—your
victim—with remorse—with bitter remorse!”

Having thus given the damsels to understand
that among them all, his heart was certainly broken,
the little postillion strutted away with folded
arms and a measured step. Indeed, by the immense
strides he took with his inverted legs, it did
really seem that he had been hired to measure the
greatest possible quantity of ground, in the shortest
possible number of steps.

The damsels replied to this pathetic appeal by
a burst of laughter.

“I'll tell you what we shall do,” said Dolabella.
“This little whipper-snapper has been making love

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to all three of us, for nearly two years. Let us
pretend to be desperately enamoured of this strange
cavalier at the cottage.”

“O yes—yes!” cried Theresa.

“Certainly! O certainly!” exclaimed Loretta.

“That will bring Signior Postillion to terms,”
continued the tall damsel, “and besides, girls, we'll
learn all about this strange old woman.”

“This strange priest!” said Loretta.

“And this handsome cavalier!” cried Theresa.

And presently they separated; each determining
to out-wit the other; both in regard to the strangers
in the cottage on the hill, and to the securing of
the gallant postillion Francisco, who to do him
justice, had those two important qualities necessary
to winning the heart of a vain woman—a
glib tongue and a rare knack of making presents
of all sorts of garish finery.