The words were scarcely spoken when the folding doors were thrown open, and Flodoardo rushed into the room enveloped in his mantle. His hair streamed on the air in wild disorder; a deep shade was thrown over his face by the drooping plumes of his barrette, from which the rain was flowing. Extreme melancholy was impressed on all his features, and he threw gloomy looks around him as he bowed his head in salutation of the assembly.
Every one crowded round him; every mouth was unclosed to question him; every eye was fixed on his face as if eager to anticipate his answers.
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Memmo, “I am afraid that—”
“Be silent, signor!” interrupted Contarino, sternly; “there is nothing to be afraid of.”
“Illustrious Venetians!”—it was thus that Flodoardo broke silence, and he spoke with the commanding tone of a hero—“I conclude that his Highness has already made known to you the object of your being thus assembled. I come to put an end to your anxiety; but first, noble Andreas, I must once more receive the assurance that Rosabella of Corfu shall become my bride, provided I deliver into your power the bravo Abellino.”
Andreas (examining his countenance with extreme anxiety).—Flodoardo, have you succeeded? Is Abellino your prisoner?
Flodoardo.—If Abellino is my prisoner, shall Rosabella be my bride?
Andreas.—Bring me Abellino, alive or dead, and she is yours. I swear it beyond the power of retracting, and also that her dowry shall be royal!
Flodoardo.—Illustrious Venetians, ye have heard the Doge’s oath?
All.—We are your witnesses.