his heart? Does her name lurk in his every thought?--meet him in every
phase of nature? Can it be? Whither will these thoughts lead me? Is
this beautiful and majestic world to him but as one precious diamond, on
which her image--her image alone--is engraved? That he should love her?
--love Julia! Oh! Your arm--support me, Arabella! (A pause; music is
again heard.)

LEONORA (starting). Hark! Was not that Fiesco's voice, which from the
tumult penetrated even hither? Can he laugh while his Leonora weeps in
solitude? Oh, no, my child, it was the coarse, loud voice of Gianettino.

ARABELLA. It was, Signora--but let us retire to another apartment.

LEONORA. You change color, Arabella--you are false. In your looks, in
the looks of all the inhabitants of Genoa, I read a something--a
something which--(hiding her face)--oh, certainly these Genoese know more
than should reach a wife's ear.

ROSA. Oh, jealousy! thou magnifier of trifles!

LEONORA (with melancholy enthusiasm). When he was still Fiesco; when in
the orange-grove, where we damsels walked, I saw him--a blooming Apollo,
blending the manly beauty of Antinous! Such was his noble and majestic
deportment, as if the illustrious state of Genoa rested alone upon his
youthful shoulders. Our eyes stole trembling glances at him, and shrunk
back, as if with conscious guilt, whene'er they encountered the lightning
of his looks. Ah, Arabella, how we devoured those looks! with what
anxious envy did every one count those directed to her companions! They
fell among us like the golden apple of discord--tender eyes burned
fiercely--soft bosoms beat tumultuously--jealousy burst asunder all our