Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. 17 away, and she would never be pained by knowing of it. ‘*And this is all the reason of your distress? You love no one else?” I exclaimed, with eager interest. Again that flash of mysterious agitation crossed her face. ‘*Who put such a thought in your brain?” she returned, sadly. ‘I have no other love—you must believe me, Ivanilla.” I did believe her; a new thought occurred to me. Perhaps she loved the poor young refugee in her secret heart, but sternly crushed the feeling for the sake of her friend. And if so, what a heart my beautiful sister had! Ah, what a grand soul! [ admired her more than ever—I contemplated her inflex- ible sense of honor—I glowed with enthusiasm. But meantime she had told me nothing. ‘Uhere was a masked ball that night, and our father would have us go—in character, too, as he was never tired of show- ing the contrast between his two daughters. There moved ‘The Beautiful Rienzi,” pale, serene as a star, In the velvet and diamonds, the lace ruffles and pointed diadem of Mary, the lovely Queen of Scots. Here skimmed the little swarthy Italian peasant, in her short petticoat, velvet bodice, and basket of grapes on her arm; a very Mo- mus of laughter, as an Edinburgh fishwife, with a crab at her back, jostled her and shouted, ‘Caller-ou!” There were T'urks and Dervishes; Chinese, Monks, Quakers, In- dians, Sultans, Stars, Nights, Mornings, Peacccks. Birds of Paradise, Ravens, even Mount Vesuvius—which was repre- sented by a lady in a pointed dress with flame-colored feathers in her head. Minerva took me under her charge—a friend of my sis- ter, and a great favorite of mine, because of her wit and sprightliness—one Miss Belle Cranstown, who shall hereafter be more fully set forth in this story; and under her wing I had a most exhaustive time, laughing at her sallies and be- ing introduced to some fierce-looking Moors who were scour- ing the room for their Desdemonas. Once the beauteous Mary Stuart passed me with a loving smile, and my merry friend Belle burst into a laugh at the Scottish queen’s companion, a resolute-looking lady, with a furious ruff and long, stiff bodice. ‘‘ Brave Queen Bess!” she jibed, ‘‘ twist the cousin round your finger, T'hat’s sister Jjonu, my dear, and I overheard a CORNUCG OOO S (©)