his dagger in his heart.

Without uttering a single cry, sank the banditti captain at the feet
of Abellino: the death-rattle was heard in his throat, and after a
few horrible convulsions all was over.

Now did Matteo's murderer look again towards the arbour, and beheld
Rosabella half senseless, as she lay on the bank of turf.

"Your life is safe, beautiful Rosabella," said he; "there lies the
villain bleeding, who conducted me hither to murder you. Recover
yourself; return to your uncle, the Doge, and tell him that you owe
your life to Abellino."

Rosabella could not speak. Trembling, she stretched her arms
towards him, grasped his hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent
gratitude.

Abellino gazed with delight and wonder on the lovely sufferer; and
in such a situation, who could have beheld her without emotion?
Rosabella had scarcely numbered seventeen summers; her light and
delicate limbs, enveloped in a thin white garment, which fell around
her in a thousand folds; her blue and melting eyes, whence beamed
the expression of purest innocence; her forehead, white as ivory,
overshadowed the ringlets of her bright dark hair; cheeks, whence
terror had now stolen the roses; such was Rosabella, a creature in
whose formation partial Nature seemed to have omitted nothing which
might constitute the perfection of female loveliness--such was she;
and being such, the wretched Abellino may be forgiven if for some
few minutes he stood like one enchanted, and bartered for those few