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 around 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 eye 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, unconsciously;
"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.
"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.
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