CHAPTER I.
THE LOVERS.
Rosabella, the idol of all Venice, lay on the bed of sickness; a sorrow, whose cause was carefully concealed from every one, undermined her health, and destroyed the bloom of her beauty. She loved the noble Flodoardo; and who could have known Flodoardo and not have loved him? His majestic stature, his expressive countenance, his enthusiastic glance, his whole being declared aloud—Flodoardo is Nature’s favourite, and Rosabella had been always a great admirer of Nature.
But if Rosabella was ill, Flodoardo was scarcely better. He confined himself to his own apartment; he shunned society, and frequently made long journeys to different cities of the Republic, in hopes of distracting his thoughts by change of place from that object which, wherever he went, still pursued him. He had now been absent for three whole weeks. No one knew in what quarter he was wandering; and it was during this absence that the so-long expected Prince of Monaldeschi arrived at Venice to claim Rosabella as his bride.
His appearance, to which a month before Andreas looked forward with such pleasing expectation, now afforded but little satisfaction to the Doge. Rosabella was too ill to receive her suitor’s visits, and he did not allow her much time to recover her health; for six days after his arrival at Venice the Prince was found murdered in a retired part of one of the public gardens. His sword lay by him unsheathed and bloody; his tablets were gone, but one leaf had been torn from them and fastened on his breast. It was examined, and found to contain the following lines, apparently written in blood:—
“Let no one pretend to Rosabella’s hand, who is not prepared to share the fate of Monaldeschi.
“The Bravo,
“Abellino.”
“Oh, where shall I now fly for comfort? for protection?” exclaimed the Doge in despair, when this dreadful news was announced. “Why, why, is Flodoardo absent?”
Anxiously did he now desire the youth’s return, to support him under the weight of these heavy misfortunes; nor was it long before that desire was gratified. Flodoardo returned.
“Welcome, noble youth!” said the Doge, when he saw the Florentine enter his apartment. “You must not in future deprive me of your presence for so long. I am now a poor forsaken old man. You have heard that Lomellino—that Manfrone—”
“I know all,” answered Flodoardo, with a melancholy air.
“Satan has burst his chains, and now inhabits Venice under the name of Abellino, robbing me of all that my soul holds precious. Flodoardo, for Heaven’s love, be cautious; often, during your absence, have I trembled lest the miscreant’s dagger should have deprived me too of you. I have much to say to you, my young friend, but I must defer it till the evening. A foreigner of consequence has appointed this hour for an audience, and I must hasten to receive him—but in the evening—”