Beautiful Rienzi; or, The Secret Vendetta — page 281: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

274 BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. here, not your brother—that has been proved—not your brother, dear Isolina!”’ ‘‘What! and I have given him such sorrow! Does he care to meet me now?” White she grew as a Syrian lily. She drew back and hid her face in her trembling hands. For he was coming, her lord, her life, her fate. He was coming, and her heart was failing her, with overwhelming love. She would sink beneath this fierce delight; she would drink one glance from his shining eyes—one glance, and die! But he took her sweet hands kindly, gently; he spared her rushing agitation, and denied himself for her sake. He vailed these passionate heart-throbs behind a calm voice, and bent a gentle, reassuring gaze upon her. ‘* Do not fear me,” he murmured; ‘‘ I am your friend or your brother—until you wish to change the title.” ‘‘My husband!” she breathed, relinquishing herself to him, ‘‘since you love me still—yours till I die!” Reverently he took her to his breast; he did not even now overwhelm her with the passion which filled him; this frail, trembling form must be guarded kindly; it must be cher- ished for a while ere it could bear its burden’ of happiness. We led her up between us to to the vine-wreathed ve- randa, where her own true, dear parents were standing, hand in hand, rooted with joy, only able to cling together and gaze, and gaze, and gaze upon their Isolina. | Ah! life is like a lattice window in the sunlight; light and shade—light and shade; bars of gold and bars of gloom, until the frail lattice is shattered, and the light flows in with no more shadows. But hush these haunting whispers! What might not re- stored love do? What might not peace and rest do? Little by little we gained from her the story of her last two years of exile; she told it once and never reverted to it again; her gentle spirit held aloof forever after from the dark and painful memory of another’s crimes. She had found, in gathering together Mrs. Beaumont’s few effects, after her death, an open packet addressed to the deceased, which she had recognized as that which Ralph Morecombe had given to Mrs. Beaumont in the cottage in the forest. It was written by Barbara Cartier, the gipsy woman, and was a full account of Isolina Rienzi’s real parentage, and Comichooks: co