Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. o7 CHAPTER VIL. THERE IS NO GRIEF LIKE THE GRIEF THAT DOES NOT SPEAK. ‘‘He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.” —Hamuert. ‘‘Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost.”-—-TENNYSON. A presence was with me in my fathomless slumber; it brought me up from the cireles of oblivion, until a sense of returning existence began to enter my dormant brain. Slowly though, for my weary head seemed clasped by bands of iron; but at last the Presence bending over me became a reality; I opened my eyes with a confused terror. Was that my father’s face? It was gray and distorted to my unsteady vision—surely ten years had passed since I fell asleep. | “ Father!” I cried, springing up all at once; “‘what have you come to tell me?” | ‘*Poor little girl,” whispered he, compassionately, ‘I scarcely liked to waken you, you were sleeping so soundly. Oh, my daughter!’ He took me in his arms, and suddenly a great deep sob rent his frame. I said nothing, but I clung to him and waited. «Something dreadful has happened,” he gasped, after a while; ‘Cecil Beaumont was found—was found dead last night at twelve o’clock beneath a bridge, ten miles on the road!” : ‘ Dead, father!’ «And they sav ” Here he broke down and wept such tears as would kill a woman—tears that came with throes of agony and strong wrenches of the laboring chest while he rocked with me to and fro; ‘‘they say there has been foul play—that Isolina—my girl that could not harm a living thing—oh, my God! I cannot believe it!’ | CONN (7) LIAOO (©)