LITMIR.BIZ

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me speak frankly: your conversation last night interested and amused me.”

      “I know it; minds like yours are attracted by mystery.”

      Glyndon was piqued at those words, though in the tone in which they were spoken there was no contempt.

      “I see you do not consider me worthy of your friendship be it so. Good day.”

      Zicci coldly replied to the salutation, and as the Englishman rode on, returned to his botanical employment.

      The same night Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre. He was standing behind the scenes watching Isabel, who was on the stage in one of her most brilliant parts. The house resounded with applause. Glyndon was transported with a young man’s passion and a young man’s pride. “This glorious creature,” thought he, “may yet be mine.”

      He felt, while thus rapt in delicious revery, a slight touch upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld Zicci. “You are in danger,” said the latter. “Do not walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.”

      Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zicci disappeared; and when the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan ministers, where Glyndon could not follow him.

      Isabel now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her with impassioned gallantry. The actress was surprisingly beautiful; of fair complexion and golden hair, her countenance was relieved from the tame and gentle loveliness which the Italians suppose to be the characteristics of English beauty, by the contrast of dark eyes and lashes, by a forehead of great height, to which the dark outline of the eyebrows gave some thing of majesty and command. In spite of the slightness of virgin youth, her proportions had the nobleness, blent with the delicacy, that belongs to the masterpieces of ancient sculpture; and there was a conscious pride in her step, and in the swanlike bend of her stately head, as she turned with an evident impatience from the address of her lover. Taking aside an old woman, who was her constant and confidential attendant at the theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper,—

      “Oh, Gionetta, he is here again! I have seen him again! And again, he alone of the whole theatre withholds from me his applause. He scarcely seems to notice me; his indifference mortifies me to the soul,—I could weep for rage and sorrow.”

      “Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, with fondness in her voice. “He must be dull,—not worth thy thoughts.”

      The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a man in one of the nearer boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the simplicity of his dress and the extraordinary beauty of his features.

      “Not worth a thought, Gionetta,” repeated Isabel,—“not worth a thought! Saw you ever one so noble, so godlike?”

      “By the Holy Mother!” answered Gionetta, “he is a proper man, and has the air of a prince.”

      The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. “Find out his name, Gionetta,” said she, sweeping on to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.

      The scene on which the actress now entered was that of the final catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable powers of voice and art were pre-eminently called forth. The house hung on every word with breathless worship, but the eyes of Isabel sought only those of one calm and unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. The stranger listened, and observed her with an attentive gaze, but no approval escaped his lips, no emotion changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful aspect. Isabel, who was in the character of a jealous and abandoned mistress, never felt so acutely the part she played. Her tears were truthful; her passion that of nature: it was almost too terrible to behold. She was borne from the stage, exhausted and insensible, amidst such a tempest of admiring rapture as Continental audiences alone can raise. The crowd stood up, handkerchiefs waved, garlands and flowers were thrown on the stage, men wiped their eyes, and women sobbed aloud.

      “By heavens!” said a Neapolitan of great rank, “she has fired me beyond endurance. To-night, this very night, she shall be mine! You have arranged all, Mascari?”

      “All, signor. And if this young Englishman should accompany her home?”

      “The presuming barbarian! At all events let him bleed for his folly. I hear that she admits him to secret interviews. I will have no rival.”

      “But an Englishman! There is always a search after the bodies of the English.”

      “Fool! Is not the sea deep enough, or the earth secret enough, to hide one dead man? Our ruffians are silent as the grave itself. And I,—who would dare to suspect, to arraign, the Prince di—? See to it,—let him be watched, and the fitting occasion taken. I trust him to you,—robbers murder him; you understand: the country swarms with them. Plunder and strip him. Take three men; the rest shall be my escort.”

      Mascari shrugged his shoulders, and bowed submissively. Meanwhile Glyndon besought Isabel, who recovered but slowly, to return home in his carriage.1 She had done so once or twice before, though she had never permitted him to accompany her. This time she refused, and with some petulance. Glyndon, offended, was retiring sullenly, when Gionetta stopped him. “Stay, signor,” said she, coaxingly, “the dear signora is not well: do not be angry with her; I will make her accept your offer.”

      Glyndon stayed, and after a few moments spent in expostulation on the part of Gionetta, and resistance on that of Isabel, the offer was accepted; the actress, with a mixture of naivete and coquetry, gave her handy to her lover, who kissed it with delight. Gionetta and her charge entered the carriage, and Glyndon was left at the door of the theatre, to return home on foot. The mysterious warning of Zicci then suddenly occurred to him; he had forgotten it in the interest of his lover’s quarrel with Isabel. He thought it now advisable to guard against danger foretold by lips so mysterious; he looked round for some one he knew. The theatre was disgorging its crowds, who hustled and jostled and pressed upon him; but he recognized no familiar countenances. While pausing irresolute, he heard Merton’s voice calling on him, and to his great relief discovered his friend making his way through the throng.

      “I have secured you a place in the Count Cetoxa’s carriage,” said he. “Come along, he is waiting for us.”

      “How kind in you! How did you find me out?”

      “I met Zicci in the passage. ‘Your friend is at the door of the theatre,’ said he; ‘do not let him go home alone to-night the streets of Naples are not always safe.’ I immediately remembered that some of the Calabrian bravos had been busy within the city the last few weeks, and asked Cetoxa, who was with me, to accompany you.”

      Further explanation was forbidden, for they now joined the count. As Glyndon entered the carriage and drew up the glass, he saw four men standing apart by the pavement, who seemed to eye him with attention.

      “Cospetto!” cried one; “ecco Inglese!” Glyndon imperfectly heard the exclamation as the carriage drove on. He reached home in safety.

      “Have you discovered who he is?” asked the actress, as she was now alone in the carriage with Gionetta.

      “Yes, he is the celebrated Signor Zicci, about whom the court has run mad. They say he is so rich,—oh, so much richer than any of the Inglese! But a bird in the hand, my angel, is better than—”

      “Cease,” interrupted the young actress. “Zicci! Speak of the Englishman no more.”

      The carriage was now entering that more lonely and remote part of the city in which Isabel’s house was situated, when it suddenly stopped.

      Gionetta, in alarm, thrust her head out of window, and perceived by the pale light of the moon that the driver, torn from his seat, was already pinioned in the arms of two men; the next moment the door was opened violently, and a tall figure, masked and mantled, appeared.

      “Fear not, fairest Pisani,” said

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