Abellino had already passed six weeks in Venice, and yet, either

from want of opportunity, or of inclination, he had suffered his

daggers to remain idle in their sheaths. This proceeded partly from

his not being as yet sufficiently acquainted with the windings and

turnings, the bye-lanes and private alleys of the town, and partly

because he had hitherto found no customers, whose murderous designs

stood in need of his helping hand.

This want of occupation was irksome to him in the extreme; he panted

for action, and was condemned to indolence.

With a melancholy heart did he roam through Venice, and number every

step with a sigh. He frequented the public places, the taverns, the

gardens, and every scene which was dedicated to amusement. But

nowhere could he find what ho sought--tranquillity.

One evening he had loitered beyond the other visitants in a public

garden, situated on one of the most beautiful of the Venetian

islands. He strolled from arbour to arbour, threw himself down on

the sea-shore, and watched the play of the waves as they sparkled in

the moonshine.

"Four years ago," said he, with a sigh, "just such a heavenly

evening was it, that I stole from Valeria's lips the first kiss, and

heard from Valeria's lips for the first time the avowal that she

loved me."

He was silent, and abandoned himself to the melancholy recollections

which thronged before his mind's eye.

Everything around him was so calm, so silent! Not a single zephyr

sighed among the blades of grass; but a storm raged in the bosom of

Abellino.

"Four years ago could I have believed that a time would come when I

should play the part of a bravo in Venice! Oh, where are they

flown, the golden hopes and plans of glory which smiled upon me in

the happy days of my youth? I am a bravo: to be a beggar were to

be something better."

"When my good old father, in the enthusiasm of paternal vanity, so

oft threw his arms around my neck, and cried, 'My boy, thou wilt

render the name of Rosalvo glorious!' God, as I listened, how was

my blood on fire? What thought I not, what that was good and great

did I not promise myself to do! The father is dead, and the son is

a Venetian bravo! When my preceptors praised and admired me, and,

carried away by the warmth of their feelings, clapped my shoulder,

and exclaimed, 'Count, thou wilt immortalise the ancient race of

Rosalvo!' Ha, in those blessed moments of sweet delirium, how

bright and beauteous stood futurity before me! When, happy in the

performance of some good deed, I returned home, and saw Valeria

hasten to receive me with open arms, and when, while she clasped me

to her bosom I heard her whisper 'Oh, who could forbear to love the

great Rosalvo?' God! oh, God! Away, away, glorious visions of the

past. To look on you drives me mad!"




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