Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

110 BEAUTIFUL RIENZL. my sister’s—though, thank Heaven, there were no tragedy- depths in them as yet, in the mother’s. My father and Nelson had been securing the luggage; now all was arranged, and we set off. | “‘Home at last!” said my father, holding my mother’s hand in a close clasp, ‘‘ and though there are many changes, we may all be happy under the same roof yet!” “This is all one little family,” responded my mother, drawing me to her bosom with a quick sob; ‘‘oh, Guiseppe, this is a cruel change!” She had not heard yet that Isolina had been brought back to her home; or that she lay now in the 'ombs charged with murder. Poor mother, she was coming home to sorrow! But even in her fond, encircling arms, I raised my head from her bosom as we passed the signal-lamp, and gazed ont with straining eyes. No muffled figure lurked there now; whatever it was, it had vanished, and my vision, true or false, was past. Farther up the wharf I saw a group of men in military cloaks, and they also looked mysterious in the semi-gloom. “‘ Father,”’ I asked, breaking in upon his conversation, ‘what are these?” “Our brave soldiers, child; a detachment, I heard, was to leave the city to-night. Hah! there’s young Ansehn, who commands the company. ‘There’s more than one will be missed from our circle this summer, I fancy.” I looked attentively at Ansehn; his face was pale, and his hand, which daintily held a cigar, was long and white, and his gold-banded cap and trailing sword were not unlike. Pshaw, had I suffered such agitations for him? Probably Mr. Ansehn, who was quite a petit-maitre in his way, tired of smoking cigars (no, he was not tired of that yet), tired of staring at the arrivals, had been much diverted at the young. lady’s attempts to improvise a flirtation. “Fortunately,” I thought, ‘‘ he could not have recognized me under my silken vail; I might have thought of my vail before.” I flung myself back upon my mother’s bosom, and thought only of her. ‘You are looking pale and thin, my child,” said she, scanning my face tenderly; ‘‘our child looks ill, Guiseppe; I miss the dusky roses, and the merrily glancing eyes of lit- tle Zingarella; I am afraid——” CORNUCG OOO S (©)