The streets of Florence presented a wild and tumultuous scene in the pale gray of the morning. The bells from the cathedral church of Santa Maria del Fiore, and from the venerable towers of the church of the Apostoli, tolled incessantly, while from the market-place and town-house, as well as from the multitude of smaller chapels, the din was fearfully augmented. The shrill cry “to arms!” resounded every where. From the tall towers of the noble, from the windows of the citizen’s house—aye, from hut and hovel, waved the flag of the ancient republic. The rabble, armed with such imperfect weapons as haste and rage could supply, wandered in confused masses through every lane and thoroughfare, in pursuit of the instruments of the duke’s cruelty. Armed bands of horsemen patrolled the city. The burghers of the town, inured to military discipline, and trained to break opposing squadrons with the spear, were ranged, each man under the respective banner of his ward. Barriers were thrown up at the end of every street to break the charge of the duke’s cavalry. Adimari and the Medici rode at the head of their mailed retainers, displaying their armorial bearings, through every ward, cheering and animating the citizens. The ducal soldiery, scattered through the city, and unprepared for such an emergency, were endeavoring to regain the palace, but many were seized and stripped of their armour, by the vigilance of Pino D’Rossi and his associates. In front of the palace was collected a blood-thirsty mob, in overwhelming numbers, pouring from lane and alley, among which cross bows and mangonels of the soldiery from the windows, scarce seemed to take effect, so fast were those who fell replaced by throngs of the living. The cry of “death! death!” was yelled out on every hand. Women thronged the windows of the grand square, repeating the cry, and throwing weapons to the crowd below. Many of the lesser minions of the duke were seized; some in female apparel, endeavoring to escape, were rent in pieces by the vindictive Florentines, with circumstances of horrible ferocity. In the height of the uproar, a knight, mounted upon a barbed steed, and covered with a gold and ivory pointed shield, his page being seated behind him, was seen dashing along at full speed toward the city gates.

“Ho!” cried Bindo Altoviti, “what guard keep ye here, archers? Draw to the head, and send me yon Frenchman back to his own country, feathered for his flight with a goose-wing of Florence!”

A shower of arrows were directed against the fugitives, two of which took effect, and the knight, with his page, fell to the ground. The people pursued and caught the flying steed, crying, “thanks to the good duke for the gift! Oh! the Florentine people for ever!”

Adimari and Medici, with their train, rode up at the instant.

“What cavalier is yon?” asked Adimari. “Some one examine him, that we may know if he deserve honorable burial. God forbid we should deny that, even to a foe.”

Pompeo Medici rode up, attended by an esquire, to the bodies, and dismounting, unlaced the helmet of the fallen cavalier, across whom the body of the page was extended, as if to protect the form of his master. The dying man turned his countenance to Medici, and with a shudder, fell back dead in an unavailing effort to speak.

“Ha! St. John! whom have we here?” cried Pompeo. “Noble Adimari, view these corpses. My thoughts were not in error. And the page too—”

“By the cross of St. Peter!” said Adimari, “it is no other than the Count Ugolino, and the page is—?”

“Rosabelle De Brienne.”

A deep cloud of sorrow shaded the countenance of Adimari.

“By San Giovanni!” said he, “I sorely mistrusted this. This is that love, stronger than death. Noble Ugolino, an ill-fate hath attended thee! This then hast been the cause of thy desertion, but, by my faith, I cannot blame thee, for thy lady hast the fairest face I ever looked upon.”

“Peace be with their souls!” said Medici. “Death ends all feuds. Cover their faces, and see that they be laid, side by side, in the chapel of the Virgin, with such ceremonies as their high stations demand. Myself shall be, if I live, chief mourner at this burial. Donato, be it thy care to have their bodies conveyed to the Convent of Mercy.”

The siege of the palace continued from day to day. Famine began to gnaw the vitals of the French soldiery, and fixed her tooth, sharper than the sword, beneath each iron cuirass. Rage without and hunger within, popular clamor and mutinous murmurings, accumulated the distress of the duke. In this emergency, he sent the Comte D’Hunteville, his almost only virtuous follower, to intercede with the Florentines, and to make honorable terms of capitulation. Adimari would hearken to no proposals, unless Giulio and Ippolito D’Assisi, and Cerettieri Visdomini, the chief agents of oppression, were delivered into the hands of the people. Gualtieri, impelled by a sense of honor, refused to accede to this demand. Thrice did the chief of the balia, the bishop, and the Siennese envoys, urge to the duke the impossibility of maintaining the palace, and the necessity of complying with the popular will. They met with reiterated denial. The soldiers then sent a corporal to entreat the duke to submission. Their suit was dismissed with scorn. Then did the soldiers crowd, with frowning faces and clashing arms, the chamber of the duke, with the memorable words, “lord duke, choose between these three heads and your own.” Urged by imperious necessity, worn out with famine, and watching, and clamor, Gualtieri, at last, gave a tacit acquiescence to the delivery of his favorites, and the pangs which his proud spirit felt at this ignominious humiliation were far more bitter than any of the tortures which he had inflicted upon the objects of his tyranny. Shall I record the doom of the victims? Is it not written in the chronicles of the Florentine republic? They were torn in pieces by the howling multitude, and their flesh actually devoured, even while their palpitating limbs were quivering in the agonies of death!

Quiet was once more restored to the city by the expulsion of the duke and his followers. The chapel of the Convent of Mercy, hung with black, and faintly lighted by dim and funeral tapers, was prepared for the last death rites of Ugolino and of his lady. Around the bier, where reposed the coffined forms of the dead, were gathered the noblest of Florence, and crowds of the common sort thronged the sacred edifice. The last notes of the pealing requiem died away. The solemn priest sprinkled the holy water, and the last prayer for the dead passed from his lips. The rites were ended, and amid the tears of that noble assemblage the marble jaws of the tomb closed for ever upon the bodies of those, in whom love had indeed been stronger than death.

Still does their sad tale exist among the legends of Florence, and the youths and maidens of that ancient town yet consecrate a tear to the inscription which records the loves and fate of Count Ugolino and of Rosabelle De Brienne. Yet indeed “death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections: the flower expands: the colorless film that enveloped it falls off and perishes.”

———

BY J. H. DANA.

———

You never knew Agnes? She was the prettiest girl in the village, or, for that matter, within a circuit of twenty miles. At the time I write of, she was just budding into womanhood, and if ever there was a lovely being, she was one at eighteen. Her eyes were blue, not of that light blue which is so unmeaning, but of the deep azure tint of a midnight sky, when a thousand stars are shining on its bosom, and you feel a mysterious spell cast upon you as you gaze on high. Just so I felt whenever Agnes would look into my eyes with those deep blue orbs of hers, whose every glance thrilled me to the soul. And then her hair. It was the poet’s color—a rich, sun-shiny gold. How I loved to gaze upon its massy tresses, as they flowed down a neck unrivalled for shape and whiteness. In figure she was like a sylph. Her voice excelled in sweetness any I had ever heard. It was low, and soft, and musical as the whisper of an angel.

Agnes and I had grown up together. We were not relatives, but we were both wards of Mr. Stanley, and had been playmates in childhood. Many a time had we spent whole days in wandering across our guardian’s grounds, now threading the old wood, now loitering by the little stream, and now plucking buttercups to hold under each other’s chins. Ah! those were pleasant hours. And as we grew up, and were separated,—she remaining at home with her governess, and I going to an eastern college,—I would sit for hours dreaming of Agnes, and wondering if she ever thought of me. I know not how it was; but for years I looked upon her as I looked on no other of her sex, and at the age when youth is most susceptible to novelty, I remained true to Agnes, as to the star of my destiny.

I returned, after a long absence of six years, to the residence of my guardian. In all that time I had not seen Agnes. How I longed to ascertain whether she had changed since we parted, and during the whole of the last stage of my journey, I lay back in the carriage, wondering in what manner she would meet. And when the vehicle stopped at the door of Mr. Stanley’s mansion, and all the remembered scenes of my childhood crowded around me, I turned from them impatiently, and, with a throbbing heart, looked among the group awaiting me, to see if I could distinguish Agnes. That gray-haired, gentlemanly man I knew to be my second father; but was the surpassingly beautiful girl at his side my old playmate? My heart beat quick; a sudden tremor seized me; my head was for a moment dizzy, as I advanced hastily up the steps, and was clasped, the next instant, in Mr. Stanley’s arms.

“My dear—dear boy, God bless you!” said the kind-hearted old gentleman. “We see you once more amongst us. But have you forgotten your old play-fellow?” he continued, turning to the fair creature at his side. “Six years make a great alteration I know. Agnes don’t you remember Henry?”

As I turned and fixed my eyes full upon her, I caught Agnes examining me with eager curiosity. Detected in her scrutiny she blushed to the very forehead, and dropped her eyes suddenly to the ground. I was equally abashed. I had approached her intending to address her with my old familiarity, but this aversion of her look somehow unaccountably disheartened me. I hesitated whether I should offer her my hand. The embarrassment was becoming oppressive, when, with a desperate effort, I extended my hand, and said—

“Miss Agnes—” but for the life of me I could not proceed. It was, however, sufficient to induce her to look up, and our eyes met. At the same instant she took my proffered hand. What happened afterward I could never remember, only I recollect the blood rushed in torrents to my cheeks, and I fancied that the tiny white hand I held in my own, trembled a little, a very little, but still trembled. When I woke from the delirium of indescribable emotions that ensued, I found myself sitting with my guardian and Agnes in the parlor, but whether I walked there on my head or my feet I cannot to this day remember.

The month which followed was among the happiest of my life, for it was spent at the side of Agnes. We walked, rode, chatted, and sang together; not a morning or an evening found us apart; and insensibly her presence became to me almost as necessary as the air I breathed. Yet—I know not how it was—Agnes was a mystery to me. At first, indeed, we were almost on the same footing as if we had been brother and sister, but after I had been at my guardian’s about a month, she began to grow reserved, although at times she would display all her old frankness, united with even more than her usual gaiety. Often too, when I looked up at her suddenly, I would find her gazing into my face, and when thus detected, she would blush and cast her eyes down, and seem so embarrassed that I scarcely knew what to think, unless it was that Agnes—but no!—how could she be in love with one almost a stranger?

For myself, I would have given the world, if I could only have penetrated the secrets of her heart, and learned there whether the affection toward her, which I had felt had stolen almost insensibly across me, had been returned. Yes! I would have given an emperor’s ransom to discover what my timidity would not allow me to enquire. It is an old story, and has been told by hundreds before—this tale of a young lover—but I cannot refrain from rehearsing it again. I was sadly perplexed. Not a day passed but what I rose to the height of hope, or fell to the depth of despair. A smile from Agnes was the sunlight of my existence, and her reserve plunged me in unfathomable darkness. I could not penetrate the fickleness of her manner, especially when any of her young female friends were visiting her. If I spoke to them with any show of interest, she would either be unnaturally gay or singularly silent, and when I came to address her, I would be received with chilling coldness. Yet, at other times, my despair would be relieved by a return of her old frankness, and a hundred times have I been on the point of telling her the whole story of my love, but either my fears, or her returning reserve, prevented my purpose from being executed.

One day, after I had been at my guardian’s for nearly three months, Agnes and I set out together for a walk through the forest. It was a beautiful morning, and the birds were carolling gaily from every bough, while the balmy wind sighed sweetly among the fresh forest leaves, making together a harmony such as nothing but nature herself, on a morning so lovely, can produce. Our hearts were in unison with the scenery around, and Agnes was in one of her old frank moods. We wandered on accordingly, over stream and through glade and down dell, admiring the glorious scenery on every hand, and now and then stopping to gather a wild flower, to listen to the birds, or to rest upon some mossy bank, until the day had far advanced, and recurring, for the first time to my watch, I found that we had been several hours on our stroll, and that it was already high noon. We were not so far, however, from home but what we might reach it in an hour.

“Had we not better return, Agnes?” said I, “it is growing late.”

“Oh! yes,” she replied, “in a moment. Wait till I have finished this wreath,” and she continued weaving together the wild flowers she had gathered for a chaplet for her hair. How nimbly her taper fingers moved, and how lovely she looked, as seated on the grassy knoll, with her hat cast off beside her, and her beautiful face flushed with health and pleasure, she pursued her task.

She was still busy in her fanciful labor, when a cloud suddenly obscured the sun, and we both looked up in some surprise, for the morning had been unusually fair, and not a vapor hitherto had dimmed the sky. A light fleecy film like a fine gauze veil, was floating across the sun’s disc.

“There is a storm brewing in the hills,” said I.

“Let us return at once,” said Agnes, “for my chaplet is finished at last, and it would be so dreadful to be caught in a shower.”

We did not linger a moment, for we both knew that it was not unusual for a thunder shower to come up, in that mountainous region, with a rapidity almost inconceivable to those who have never lived in so elevated a position. Hastily seizing her hat, and throwing her chaplet over her bright brow, she set forth smiling as gaily as ever, to return by the shortest path to our home.

For nearly a half an hour we pursued our way through the forest, but at every step we perceived that the storm was coming up more rapidly, until at length the smiles of Agnes ceased, and we pursued our now hurried way in silence, save when an exclamation from my fair companion betokened some new and angrier aspect of the sky.

“Oh! Harry,” she said, at length, “we shall get drenched through—see, the tempest is at hand, and we have yet more than a mile to go.”

I looked up. The storm was indeed at our doors. Yet it was as magnificent a spectacle as I had ever beheld. The heavens were as black as pitch, save now and then when for a moment they were obscured by a lurid canopy of dust, swept upward from the highway, giving earth and sky the appearance as of the day of doom. Now the wind wailed out in the forest, and now whirled wildly past us. The trees groaned and bent in the gale, their branches streaming out like banners on the air. Anon, all was still. How deep and awful and seemingly endless was that boding repose. Agnes shrank closer to my side, her face paler than ashes, and her slight form trembling with ill-concealed agitation. Not a house was in sight. I saw that our only shelter was the forest, and I retreated, therefore, beneath a huge overshadowing oak, whose gnarled and aged branches might have defied a thousand years. As I did so a few rain drops pattered heavily to the earth—then came another silence—and then with a rushing-sound through the forest, as if an army was at hand, the tempest was upon us.

Never had I beheld such a storm. It seemed as if earth and heaven had met in battle, and that each was striving amid the ruins of a world for the mastery. The first rush of the descending rain was like a deluge, bending the mightiest trees like reeds beneath it, and filling the hollows of the forest road with a flood of water. Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning shot across the heaven, and then at a short interval followed a clap of thunder. Agnes clung closely to my arm, her face wild with affright. With a few hurried words I strove to sooth her, pressing her still closer, and with strange delight, to my bosom. As I did so she burst into tears. Her conduct—I cannot explain why—filled me with a joy I had long despaired of, and in the impulse of the moment, I said,

“Dear Agnes! fear not. I am beside you, and will die with you.”

She looked up, all tearful as she was, into my eyes, and strove to speak, but her emotion was too great, and, with a glance I shall never forget, buried her face against my shoulder. I pressed her closer to my heart. I felt a wild ecstacy tingling through every vein, such as I had never experienced. I could not resist my feelings longer.

“Agnes! dear, dear Agnes,” I said, bending over her, “I love you. Oh! will you be mine if we escape?”

She made me no answer, but sobbed aloud. I pressed her hand. The pressure was gently returned. I wanted nothing more to assure me of her affection. I was in a dream of wildering delight at the conviction.

For a moment I had forgotten the tempest in my ecstacy. But suddenly I was aroused from my rapture by a succession of loud and reiterated peals, bursting nearer and nearer overhead, and I looked up now in real alarm, wishing that we had kept the forest road, exposed as we would have been to the rain, rather than subject ourselves to the dangers of our present position. I determined even yet to fly from our peril, and taking Agnes by the waist, urged her trembling steps onward. We had but escaped from beneath the oak when a blinding flash of lightning zig-zagged from one horizon to the other, and instantaneously a peal of thunder, which rings in my ears even yet, burst right over us, and went crackling and echoing down the sky, as if a thousand chariots were driving furiously over its adamantine pavement. But this I scarcely noticed at the time, though it filled my memory afterward, for the flash of lightning seeming to dart from every quarter of the heaven, and unite right over us, shot directly downward, and in the next instant the oak under which we had been standing, riven in twain, stood a scarred and blackened wreck, against the frowning sky. I felt my senses reeling: I thought all was over.

When I recovered my senses I found myself standing, with Agnes in my arms, while the thunder was still rolling down the firmament. My first thought was of the dear girl beside me, for I thought her form was unusually heavy. She was apparently perfectly lifeless. Oh! the agony of that moment! Could she have been struck by the lightning? Wild with fear I exclaimed,

“Agnes! look up—dear one, you are not hurt?”

At length she moved. She had only fainted, and the rain revived her, so that in a few minutes I had the inexpressible delight of feeling her clasp my hand in return for my ardent emotion. But it was long before she was able to return home, and when we did so we arrived thoroughly drenched through. But every thing was forgotten in gratitude for our escape, and joy at knowing that we were beloved.

And Agnes is now my wife, and I hear her footstep, still to me like music, approaching. I must close my sketch or the dear one will burn it, for she has no notion, she says, of figuring in a magazine.

April, 1841.