Scarcely had Abellino achieved the bloody deed which employed every tongue in Venice, when he changed his dress and whole appearance with so much expedition and success as to prevent the slightest suspicion of his being Matteo’s murderer. He quitted the gardens unquestioned, nor left the least trace which could lead to a discovery.
He arrived at Cinthia’s dwelling. It was already evening. Cinthia opened the door, and Abellino entered the common apartment.
“Where are the rest?” said he in a savage tone of voice whose sound made Cinthia tremble.
“They have been asleep,” she answered, “since mid-day. Probably they mean to go out on some pursuit to-night.” Abellino threw himself into a chair, and seemed to be lost in thought.
“But why are you always so gloomy, Abellino?” said Cinthia, drawing near him; “it’s that which makes you so ugly. Prithee away with those frowns; they make your countenance look worse than nature made it?”
Abellino gave no answer.
“Really, you are enough to frighten a body! Come, now, let us be friends, Abellino; I begin not to dislike you, and to endure your appearance; and I don’t know but—”
“Go, wake the sleepers!” roared the bravo.
“The sleepers? Pshaw, let them sleep on, the stupid rogues. Sure you are not afraid to be alone with me? Mercy on me, one would think I looked as terrible as yourself? Do I? Nay, look on me, Abellino.”
Cinthia, to say the truth, was by no means an ill-looking girl; her eyes were bright and expressive; the hair fell in shining ringlets over her bosom; her lips were red and full, and she bowed them towards Abellino’s. But Abellino’s were still sacred by the touch of Rosabella’s cheek. He started from his seat, and removed, yet gently, Cinthia’s hand, which rested on his shoulder.