ROSABELLA, THE DOGE’S LOVELY NIECE.
“HARK, comrade,” said Matteo the next morning to Abellino; “to-day thou
shalt make thy first step in our profession.”
“To-day!” hoarsely murmured Abellino; “and on whom am I to show my
skill?”
“Nay, to say truth, ’tis but a woman; but one must not give too difficult
a task to a young beginner. I will myself accompany you, and see how you
conduct yourself in the first trial.”
“Hum!” said Abellino, and measured Matteo with his eye from head to foot.
“To-day, about four o’clock, thou shalt follow me to Dolabella’s gardens,
which are situated on the south side of Venice. We must both be
disguised, you understand. In these gardens are excellent baths; and
after using the baths, the Doge’s niece, the lovely Rosabella of Corfu,
frequently walks without attendants. And then—you conceive me?”
“And you will accompany me?”
“I will be a spectator of your first adventure; ’tis thus I deal by every
one.”
“And how many inches deep must I plunge my dagger?”
“To the hilt, boy, to the very hilt! Her death is required, and the
payment will be princely; Rosabella in the grave, we are rich for life.”
Every other point was soon adjusted. Noon was now past, the clock in the
neighbouring church of the Benedictines struck four, and Mattes and
Abellino were already forth. They arrived at the gardens of Dolabella,
which that day were unusually crowded. Every shady avenue was thronged
with people of both sexes; every arbour was occupied by persons most
distinguished in Venice. In every corner sighed lovesick couples, as
they waited for the wished approach of twilight; and on every side did
strains of vocal and instrumental music pour their harmony on the
enchanted ear.
Abellino mingled with the crowd. A most respectable looking peruke
concealed the repulsive ugliness of his features; he imitated the walk
and manners of a gouty old man, and supported himself by a crutch, as he
walked slowly through the assembly. His habit, richly embroidered,
procured for him universally a good reception, and no one scrupled to
enter into conversation with him respecting the weather, the commerce of
the Republic, or the designs of its enemies; and on none of these
subjects was Abellino found incapable of sustaining the discourse.
By these means he soon contrived to gain intelligence that Rosabella was
certainly in the gardens, how she was habited, and in what quarter he was
most likely to find her.
Thither he immediately bent his course; and hard at his heels followed
Matteo.
Alone, and in the most retired arbour, sat Rosabella of Corfu, the
fairest maid in Venice.
Abellino drew near the arbour; he tottered, as he passed its entrance,
like one oppressed with sudden faintness, and attracted Rosabella’s
attention.
“Alas, alas!” cried he, “is there no one at hand who will take compassion
on the infirmity of a poor old man?”
The Doge’s fair niece quitted the arbour hastily, and flew to give
assistance to the sufferer.
“What ails you, my good father?” she inquired in a melodious voice, and
with a look of benevolent anxiety.
Abellino pointed towards the arbour; Rosabella led him in, and placed him
on a seat of turf.
“God reward you, lady,” stammered Abellino, faintly. He raised his eyes;
they met Rosabella’s, and a blush crimsoned her pale cheeks.
Rosabella stood in silence before the disguised assassin, and trembled
with tender concern for the old man’s illness; and oh, that expression of
interest ever makes a lovely women look so much more lovely! She bent
her delicate form over the man who was bribed to murder her, and after a
while asked him, in gentlest tone, “Are you not better?”
“Better?” stammered the deceiver, with a feeble voice, “better—oh, yes,
yes, yes. You—you are the Doge’s niece—the noble Rosabella of Corfu?”
“The same, my good old man.”
“Oh, lady, I have somewhat to tell you. Be on your guard, Start not!
What I would say is of the utmost consequence, and demands the utmost
prudence. Ah, God, that there should live men so cruel! Lady, your life
is in danger.”
The maiden started back; the colour fled from her cheeks.
“Do you wish to behold your assassin? You shall not die, but if you
value your life, be silent.”
Rosabella knew not what to think; the presence of the old man terrified
her.
“Fear nothing, lady, fear nothing; you have nothing to fear, while I am
with you. Before you quit this arbour you shall see the assassin expire
at your feet.”
Rosabella made a movement as if she would have fled; but suddenly the
person who sat beside her was no longer an infirm old man. He who a
minute before had scarcely strength to mutter out a few sentences, and
reclined against the arbour trembling like an aspen, sprang up with the
force of a giant, and drew her back with one arm.
“For the love of heaven!” she cried, “release me. Let me fly!”
“Lady, fear nothing; _I_ protect you.” This said, Abellino placed a
whistle at his lips, and blew it shrilly.
Instantly sprang Matteo from his concealment in a neighbouring clump of
trees, and rushed into the arbour. Abellino threw Rosabella on the bank
of turf, advanced a few steps to meet Matteo, and plunged his dagger in
his heart.
Without uttering a single cry, sank the banditti captain at the feet of
Abellino: the death-rattle was heard in his throat, and after a few
horrible convulsions all was over.
Now did Matteo’s murderer look again towards the arbour, and beheld
Rosabella half senseless, as she lay on the bank of turf.
“Your life is safe, beautiful Rosabella,” said he; “there lies the
villain bleeding, who conducted me hither to murder you. Recover
yourself; return to your uncle, the Doge, and tell him that you owe your
life to Abellino.”
Rosabella could not speak. Trembling, she stretched her arms towards
him, grasped his hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent gratitude.
Abellino gazed with delight and wonder on the lovely sufferer; and in
such a situation, who could have beheld her without emotion? Rosabella
had scarcely numbered seventeen summers; her light and delicate limbs,
enveloped in a thin white garment, which fell around her in a thousand
folds; her blue and melting eyes, whence beamed the expression of purest
innocence; her forehead, white as ivory, overshadowed the ringlets of her
bright dark hair; cheeks, whence terror had now stolen the roses; such
was Rosabella, a creature in whose formation partial Nature seemed to
have omitted nothing which might constitute the perfection of female
loveliness—such was she; and being such, the wretched Abellino may be
forgiven if for some few minutes he stood like one enchanted, and
bartered for those few minutes the tranquillity of his heart for ever.
“By Him who made me,” cried he at length, “oh! thou art fair, Rosabella;
Valeria was not fairer.”
He bowed himself down to her, and imprinted a burning kiss on the pale
cheeks of the beauty.
“Leave me, thou dreadful man,” she stammered in terror; “oh, leave me.”
“Ah, Rosabella, why art thou so beauteous, and why am I—Knowest thou who
kissed thy cheek, Rosabella? Go, tell thy uncle, the proud Doge—_’Twas
the bravo_, _Abellino_,” he said, and rushed out of the arbour.