gazed with surprise upon her symmetrical figure, and was about to point her out to Matilda, when, in the downcast countenance of the enchanting female, he recognised his long-lost Julia.
To paint the feelings of Verezzi—as Julia raised her head from the attitude in which it was fixed, and disclosed to his view that countenance which he had formerly gazed on in ecstasy, the index of that soul to which he had sworn everlasting fidelity—is impossible.
The Lethean torpor, as it were, which before had benumbed him; the charm, which had united him to Matilda, was dissolved.
All the air-built visions of delight, which had but a moment before floated in gay variety in his enraptured imagination, faded away, and, in place of these, regret, horror, and despairing repentance, reared their heads amid the roses of momentary voluptuousness.
He still gazed entranced, but Julia's gondola, indistinct from distance, mocked his straining eyeball.
For a time neither spoke: the gondola rapidly passed onwards, but, immersed in thought, Matilda and Verezzi heeded not its rapidity.
They had arrived at St. Mark's Place, and the gondolier's voice, as he announced it, was the first interruption of the silence.
They started.—Verezzi now, for the first time, aroused from his reverie of horror, saw that the scene before him was real; and that the oaths of fidelity which he had so often and so fervently sworn to Julia were broken.
The extreme of horror seized his brain—a frigorific torpidity of despair chilled every sense, and his eyes, fixedly, gazed on vacancy.
"Oh! return—instantly return!" impatiently replied Matilda to the question of the gondolier.
The gondolier, surprised, obeyed her, and they returned.
