Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

98 BEAUTIFUL RIENZI. He went away and I commenced my watch. I scarcely dared to move, lest some unforeseen sound might startle the sleeper, and spoil all; I read good Dr. Graves’ cramped characters until I could repeat the directions from end to end, and my eyes wandered with all the restlessness of my impatient nature from object to object in the room. There was a portfolio, of rather large size, leaning against the wainscot, behind.a chair, out of which were exposed the corners of several sheets of Bristol board. It had fallen for- ward against the chair; one of the crimson ribbons which tied it was broken off, and the contents had slipped toward one end. Again and again my eyes returned to this object, with a pertinacity which became each time more disagree- able. I knew it was an old portfolio of my sister’s, whose contents | had often carelessly looked over, and I suppose she had been looking at it lately, and left it there. At last the sight of it became a sort of nervous torture. I turned my back upon it, and looked at something else; but malicious fancy reproduced it behind every chair in the room. I sprang up and cautiously lifted the chair aside, determined to push my enemy outof sight. As I lifted it, one picture from the many which made the portfolio so heavy rustled out and fell at my feet. I put the portfolio behind a curtain, picked up the paint- ing and sat down with a grotesque feeling as if fate had per- sisted in having her way, to look at what she had thrust upon me. It was but a tiny bit of painting in the center of a broad sheet of paper. No tyro’s hand had rested on this page; my sister’s brush, fine though it was, had never thrown these cold, sharp lights and glooms so vividly upon a simple scene. A shadowy shape in the distance, like that of a cottage leaf-mantled; a heap of muffling foliage running down to the foreground and breaking off in the center, where one broad lane of straightly lancing moonlight streamed down; and in the pale flash of the heavens, half-encircled by somber front- age—two figures. She standing erect, her hands clasped to- gether; her countenance raised, with a glad, exultant, ten- der fearlessness to his and this face, which was thus touched and glorified with love’s conquest, was Isolina’s! And who was the conqueror? A tall man who bent over her with an arm supporting her, and one strong white hand holding her clasped and smaller hands in the palm; a face whose hike I COMICOOO S (©)