Again he sounded his whistle. The folding doors were thrown open, and there stood the Doge’s much lamented friends—Conari, Lomellino, and Manfrone.
“We are betrayed!” shouted Contarino, who drew out a concealed dagger, and plunged it in his bosom up to the very hilt.
And now what a scene of rapture followed. Tears streamed down the silver beard of Andreas, as he rushed into the arms of his long-lost companions; tears bedewed the cheeks of the venerable triumvirate, as they once more clasped the knees of their prince, their friend, their brother. These excellent men, these heroes, never had Andreas hoped to meet them again till they should meet in heaven; and Andreas blessed heaven for permitting him to meet them once more on earth. These four men, who had valued each other in the first dawn of _youth_, who had fought by each other’s sides in _manhood_, were now assembled in _age_, and valued each other more than ever. The spectators gazed with universal interest on the scene before them, and the good old senators mingled tears of joy with those shed by the re-united companions. In the happy delirium of this moment, nothing but Andreas and his friends were attended to; no one was aware that the conspirators and the self-murderer Contarino were removed by the guards from the saloon; no one but Camilla observed Rosabella, who threw herself sobbing on the bosom of the handsome bravo, and repeated a thousand times, “Abellino, then, is not a murderer!”
At length they began to recollect themselves they looked round them—and the first words which broke from every lip were—“Hail, saviour of Venice!”—The roof rung with the name of Abellino, and unnumbered blessings accompanied the name.
That very Abellino, who not an hour before had been doomed to the scaffold by the whole assembly, now stood calm and dignified as a god before the adoring spectators; and now he viewed with complacency the men whose lives he had saved, and now his eye dwelt with rapture on the woman whose love was the reward of all his dangers.
“Abellino!” said Andreas advancing to the bravo, and extending his hand towards him.
“I am not Abellino,” replied he, smiling, while he pressed the Doge’s hand respectfully to his lips “neither am I Flodoardo of Florence. I am by birth a Neapolitan, and by name Rosalvo. The death of my inveterate enemy the Prince of Monaldeschi makes it no longer necessary to conceal who I really am.”