The Doge became uneasy. The senator Vitalba began to tremble for
his thousand sequins, and the conspirators could not restrain their
spiteful laughter, when Contarino gravely declared that he would
gladly lose, not ONE thousand sequins, but twenty, if the loss of
his wager through Abellino's being captured might but secure the
general safety of the Republic.
"Hark!" cried Rosabella, "the clock strikes five!"
All listened to the chimes in the tower of St. Mark's Church, and
trembled as they counted the strokes. Had not Camilla supported
her, Rosabella would have sank upon the ground. The destined hour
was past, and still Flodoardo came not!
The venerable Andreas felt a sincere affection for the Florentine;
he shuddered as he dwelt upon the probability that Abellino's dagger
had prevailed.
Rosabella advanced towards her uncle as if she would have spoken to
him; but anxiety fettered her tongue, and tears forced themselves
into her eyes. She struggled for a while to conceal her emotions,
but the effort was too much for her. She threw herself on a sofa,
wrung her hands, and prayed to the God of mercy for help and
comfort.
The rest of the company either formed groups of whisperers, or
strolled up and down the apartment in evident uneasiness. They
would willingly have appeared gay and unconcerned, but they found it
impossible to assume even an affectation of gaiety, and thus elapsed
another hour, and still Flodoardo came not.
At that moment the evening sun broke through the clouds, and a ray
of its setting glory was thrown full upon the countenance of
Rosabella. She started from the sofa, extended her arms towards the
radiant orb, and exclaimed, while a smile of hope played round her
lips, "God is merciful; God will have mercy on me."
Contarino.--Was it at five o'clock that Flodoardo engaged to produce
Abellino? It is now a full hour beyond his time.
The Senator Vitalba.--Let him only produce him at last, and he may
be a month beyond his time if he choose.
Andreas.--Hark! No. Silence! silence! Surely I hear footsteps
approaching the saloon.
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.