"Nothing can surpass this purple," continued Rosabella; "red and blue so happily blended, that no painter could produce so perfect an union."

"Red and blue? the one, the symbol of happiness, the other of affection. Ah, Rosabella! how enviable will be that man's lot on whom your hand should bestow such a flower! Happiness and affection are more inseparably united than the red and blue which purple that violet!"

"You seem to attach a value to the flower of which it is but little deserving."

"Might I but know on whom Rosabella will one day bestow what that flower expresses? Yet this is subject which I have no right to discuss: I know not what has happened to me to-day; I make nothing but blunders and mistakes. Forgive my presumption, lady, I will hazard such forward enquiries no more."

He was silent: Rosabella was silent also. All was caln and hushed, except in the hearts of the lovers.

But though they could forbid their lips to betray their hidden affection; though Rosabella's tongue said not "Thou art he, Flodoardo, on whom this flower should be bestowed;" though Flodoardo's words had not expressed, "Rosabella, give me that violet, and that which it implies;" oh, their eyes were far from being silent. Those treacherous interpreters of secret feelings acknowledged more to each other than their hearts had yet acknowledged to themselves.

Flodoardo and Rosabella gazed on each other with looks which made all speech unnecessary. Sweet, tender, and enthusiastic was the smile which played round Rosabella's lips, when her eyes met those of the youth whom she had selected from the rest of mankind; and with mingled emotions of hope and fear did the youth study the meaning of that smile. He understood it, and his heart beat louder, and his eyes flamed brighter.

Rosabella trembled; her eyes could no longer sustain the fire of his glances, and a modest blush overspread her face and bosom.

"Rosabella!" at length murmured Flodoardo uncon

sciously; and "Flodoardo!” sighed Rosabella in the same

tone.

"Give me that violet!" he exclaimed, eagerly; then sank at her feet, and in a tone of the most humble supplication repeated, "Oh, give it to me!”

Rosabella held the flower fast.

"Ask for it what thou wilt: if a throne can purchase it, I will pay that price, or perish! Rosabella, give me that flower."

She stole one look at the handsome suppliant, and dared not hazard a second.

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My repose, my happiness, my life, nay, even my glory, all depend on the possession of that little flower! Let that be mine, and here I solemnly renounce all else which the world calls precious!"

The flower trembled in her snowy hand; her fingers clasped it less firmly.

"You hear me, Rosabella? I kneel at your feet, and am I then in vain a beggar?”

The word beggar recalled to her memory Camilla and her prudent counsels. "What am I doing?” she said to herself; "have I forgotten my promise- my resolution? Fly, Rosabella, fly, or this hour makes you faithless to yourself and duty!"

She tore the flower to pieces, and threw it contemptuously on the ground.

"I understand you, Flodoardo," said she, " and having understood you, will never suffer this subject to be renewed. Here let us part, and let me not again be offended by a similar presumption. Farewell!"

She turned from him with disdain, and left Flodoardo rooted to his place with sorrow and astonishment.

CHAPTER V.

THE ASSASSIN

SCARCELY had she reached her chamber ere Rosabella repented her having acted so courageously. It was cruel in her, she thought, to have given him so harsh an answer! She recollected with what hopeless and melancholy looks the poor thunderstruck youth had followed her steps as she turned to leave him. She fancied that she saw him stretched despairing on the earth, his hair dishevelled, his eyes filled with tears. She heard him term her the murderess of his repose, pray for death, as his only refuge, and she saw him with every moment approach towards the attainment of his prayer, through the tears which he shed on her account. Already she heard those dreadful words, "Flodoardo is no more!" Already she saw the sympathising multitude weep round the tomb of him whom all the virtuous loved, and whom the wicked dreaded; whom all his friends adored, and whom even his enemies admired.

"Alas! alas!" cried she, "this was but a wretched attempt to play the heroine; aiready does my resolution fail me. Ah, Flodoardo, I meant not what I said! I love you, love you now, and must love you always, though Camilla may chide, and though my good uncle may hate me."

In a few days after this interview, she understood that an extraordinary alteration had taken place in Flodoardo's manner and appearance; that he had withdrawn himself from all general society; and that when the solicitations of his i timate friends compelled him to appear in their circle, his spirits seemed evidently depressed by the weight of an unconquerable melancholy.

This intelligence was like the stroke of a poniard to the feeling heart of Rosabella. She fled for shelter to the solitude of her chamber, there indulged her feelings with

out restraint, and lamented, with showers of repentant tears, her harsh treatment of Flodoardo.

The grief which preyed in secret on her soul soon undermined her health. No one could relieve her sufferings, for no one knew the cause of her melancholy, or the origin of her illness. No wonder, then, that Rosabella's situation at length excited the most bitter anxiety in the bosom of her venerable uncle. No wonder, too, that Flodoardo entirely withdrew himself from a world, which was become odious to him since Rosabella was to be seen in it no longer; and that he devoted himself in solitude to the indulgence of a passion which he had vainly endeavoured to subdue; and which, in the impetuosity of its course had already swallowed up every other wish, and every other sentiment.

But let us for a moment turn from the sick chamber of Rosabella, and visit the dwellings of the conspirators, who were now advancing with rapid strides towards the execution of their plans; and who, with every hour that passed over their heads, became more numerous, more powerful, and more dangerous to Andreas and his beloved republic.

Parozzi, Memmo, Contarino, and Falieri (the chiefs of this desperate undertaking), now assembled frequently in the Cardinal Gonzaga's palace, where the different plans for altering the constitution of Venice were brought forward and discussed. But in all these different schemes it was evident that the proposer was solely actuated by considerations of private interest. The object of one was to get free from the burden of enormous debts; another was willing to sacrifice every thing to gratify his inordinate ambition; the cupidity of this man was excited by the treasures of Andreas and his friends; while that was actuated by resentment of some fancied offence, a resentment which could only be quenched with the offender's blood.

These execrable wretches, who aimed at nothing less than the total overthrow of Venice, or at least of her government, looked towards the completion of their extravagant hopes with the greater confidence, since a new but neces

sary addition to the already existing taxes had put the Venetian populace out of humour with their rulers.

Rich enough, both in adherents and in wealth, to realise their fearful projects; rich enough in bold, shrewd, desperate men, whose minds were well adapted to the contrivance and execution of revolutionary projects; they now looked down with contempt on the good old doge, who, as yet, entertained no suspicion of the object of their nocturnal meetings.

Still did they not dare to carry their projects into effect till some principal persons in the state should be prevented by death from throwing obstacles in their way. For the accomplishment of this part of their plan they relied on the daggers of the banditti. Dreadful, therefore, was the sound in their ears when the bell gave the signal for execution, and they saw their best founded hopes expire on the scaffold which supported the headless trunks of the four bravos. But if their consternation was great at thus losing the destined instruments of their designs, how extravagant was their joy when the proud Abellino dared openly to declare to Venice that he still inhabited the republic, and that he still wore a dagger at the disposal of vice.

"This desperado is the very man for us!" they exclaimed unanimously, and in rapture; and now their most ardent wish was to enrol Abellino in their service.

That object was soon attained: they sought the daring ruffian, and he suffered himself to be found. He visited their meetings, but in his promises and demands he was equally extravagant.

The first and most earnest wish of the whole conspiracy. was the death of Conari, the procurator; a man whom the doge valued beyond all others; a man, whose eagleeyes made the conspirators hourly tremble for their secret, and whose services the doge had accepted, in preference to those of the Cardinal Gonzaga. But the sum which Abellino demanded for the murder of this one man was

enormous.

"Give me the reward which I require," said he, "and I promise, on the word of a man of honour, that after

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