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 prudish countess, in the presence of her servants, and Apollonia unobserved in her chamber, are two totally different persons.”

“Heaven and earth!” cried the inflamed Camillo. “Is it then really so? can that proud heart throb for something more ardent than cold duty? can that marble bosom be made to heave higher by the anticipation of joy? could I myself”

“Raise your voice a little more,” said the nobile, “and then the Doge himself can give you answers to all your questions, which to me seem very ridiculous in the mouth of a young and handsome soldier.”

At that moment the silver bell rang, the lofty doors flew open, and Camillo was ushered into the inner apartment of the Doge, hung with red velvet.

When, after receiving his despatches, he again left it, the nobile was gone. Nor did he miss him. How could the ardent Camillo, who, in the presence of the Doge himself, was thinking of scarcely any thing but Apollonia’s charms, hanker after the odious innuendoes of one who manifestly hated and envied Frangipani, perhaps on the same account? No; a very different subject engaged his excited imagination, which impelled his inflamed blood with tenfold force through his swollen veins. His penetration then had not been at fault. Apollonia was in-