Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

18 BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. Trappist telling the Pope in the corner there that the lady suited the character very well. Rather. hard on either Lou or Queen Elizabeth—I sha’n’t say which.” I was still looking with proud eyes at my lovely sister, whose calm perfections in her stately costume were absolutely dazzling, when suddenly she swung round from her lady- companion and gazed with a slowly deepening flush of wild emotion at a holly-wreathed pillar, beside which a figure was standing with folded arms. A mask shielded the face, and the nodding plume of Napoleon’s hat cast a shadow across the mask, but the figure, clad a la the victorious conqueror, was tall and princely in its proportions, and there was a cer- tain forlorn grandeur in the attitude that suggested aptly © enough my lively friend’s next remarks: «¢ ¢ But one—a lone one mid the throng, Seemed reckless all of dance or song!’ as Mrs. Hemans says. Whata gathering of the regal ele- ment! And what a coincidence! The Queen of Scots rush- ing to speak to poor Bony in the Island of St. Helena! But who is he? That envious mask hides all!” Who was he? I could not tell. My sister had shimmered forward with eyes sparkling and hands outstretched, in eager, tremulous joy. ‘Tt is—surely it must be my victor!” she murmured. The figure shifted; my heart sank at the low, suppressed voice. «Your majesty looked for a Bothwell, then? Your Both- well tarries long, my queen, at his hermitage—better turn a thought to those who love your majesty faithfully.” ‘< Sir,” said my sister, shrinking back, ‘‘1 thought you some one else. You speak in character, but I understand the taunt, and do not heed it. Mr. Cecil Beaumont forfeits even my respect, when he deals in taunts.” The exile bowed his head in silence; closer and closer J had advanced, leaving my companion in the midst of a group; I was now beside my sister, and I clasped her hand warmly. Napoleon bowed to the peasant. “Have you forgotten—my little pleader?” he murmured in Ita‘ian, bending toward me. ‘‘Come away!” said Isolina, coldly; she drew my hand closer. ‘“T beg one grape from the little peasant beauty’s basket ee a8 COMICOOO S (©)