banished man, yet hope pre-ponderated over fear, and, blessed by her
enchanting smiles, the lover indulged in delightful anticipations.

...

Again was the Alberoni palace illumined by innumerable tapers; again
were the glittering saloons filled with all the noble population of
Florence. A second nuptial feast, more splendid and joyous than the
first, was celebrated; again Giacinta, lovelier than ever, shone as the
bride, and by her side a cavalier appeared, whose summer of life was
better adapted to match with her tender years than the mature age of her
late husband had been.

The Count Alberoni Gonzago was dead; and Francesco succeeding to his
wealth, had obtained the hand of his widow. Beatrice, also a bride,
followed in the train of the Countess, but followed more like a mourner
at some funeral solemnity than as the newly wedded consort of the
husband of her choice. Francesco all smiles and triumph, as he stood
with the fairest hand in Florence hanging on his arm, proudly greeting
the guests who crowded to pay him homage, turned frequently, and cast
looks of piercing examination and reproach upon his pale and trembling
sister, and, as if fascinated by his glance, she would rally her,
failing spirits and smile languidly upon the bridegroom, who bent over
her enamoured; and then, as if beguiled from some painful contemplation
by the sweet accents of the man she loved, she became calm, and her
quivering features resumed their wonted placidity. But these moments of
tranquillity were of short duration; she started at every shadow; the
flash of one of the jewels which broidered her satin robe would cause a
fit of trembling; and at length, when seated at the banquet opposite her
brother and his bride, a richly clad domestic offered wine in a golden