of a
rustic beauty from the advances of an imaginary lover; and, though
she was alone, so perfectly did she convey the storied interest of the
scene, that the enraptured audience could trace every sentiment of the
action. At one moment her gestures depicted the proudest insolence and
disdain; at the next a half-yielding tenderness--now, it was passion to
the very verge of madness--now, it was a soul-subduing softness, that
thrilled through every heart around her. Incapable, as it seemed, of
longer resisting the solicitations of love, her wearied steps grew
heavier, her languid head drooped, and a look of voluptuous waywardness
appeared to steal over her. Wherever her eye turned a murmured sigh
acknowledged how thoroughly the captivation held enthralled every bosom
around, when suddenly, with a gesture that seemed like a cry--so full of
piercing agony it seemed--she dashed her hands across her forehead
and stared with aching eye-balls into vacancy,--it was jealousy: the
terrible pang had shot through her heart, and she was wild. The horrible
transitions from doubt to doubt, until full conviction forced itself
upon her, were given with extraordinary power. Over her features, in
turn, passed every expression of passion. The heartrending tenderness of
love--the clinging to a lost affection--the straining effort to recall
him who had deserted her--the black bitterness of despair--and then,
with a wild spring, like the bound of a tiger, she counterfeited a leap
over a precipice to death!

She fell upon the ground, and as the mingled sobs and cries rose through
the troubled crowd, a boy tore his way through the dense mass, and
fighting with all the energy of infuriated strength, gained the open
space where she lay. Dropping on his knees, he bent over, and clasping
her hand kissed it wildly over and over, crying out in a voice of broken
agony, 'Oh! Marietta, Marietta mia, come back to us--come back, we will
love you and cherish you.'

A great roar of laughter--the revulsion to that intensity of feeling so
lately diffused among them--now shook the mob. Revenging, as it were,
the illusion that had so enthralled themselves, they now turned all
their ridicule upon the poor boy.

'Santissima Virginia! if he isn't a scholar of the Holy Order!' shouted
one.

'Ecco! a real Jesuit!' said another; 'had he been a little older,
though, he 'd have done it more secretly.'

'The little priest is offering the consolation of his order,' c