"No, it may not be!" she said, rising, and extricating her hand gently from his grasp. "Leave me, and forget me. You do not understand, you could not comprehend, the nature of her whom you think to love. From my childhood upward, I have felt as if I were marked out for some strange and preternatural doom; as if I were singled from my kind. This feeling (and, oh! at times it is one of delirious and vague delight, at others of the darkest gloom) deepens with me day by day. It is like the shadow of twilight, spreading slowly and solemnly round. My hour approaches; a little while, and it will be night!"
As she spoke, Glyndon listened with visible emotion and perturbation.
"Isabel!" he exclaimed, as she ceased, "your words more than ever enchain me to you. As you feel, I feel. I, too, have been ever haunted with a chill and unearthly foreboding. Amidst the crowds of men I have felt alone. In all my pleasures, my toils, my pursuits, a warning voice has murmured in my ear, "Time has a dark mystery in store for thy manhood." When you spoke it was as the voice of my own soul."
Isabel gazed upon him in wonder and fear. Her countenance was as white as marble, and those features, so divine in their rare symmetry, might have served the Greek with a study for the Pythoness when, from the mystic cavern and the bubbling spring, she first hears the voice of the inspiring G.o.d. Gradually the rigor and tension of that wonderful face relaxed, the color returned, the pulse beat, the heart animated the frame.
"Tell me," she said, turning partially aside, "tell me, have you seen, do you know, a stranger in this city,--one of whom wild stories are afloat?"
"You speak of Zicci. I have seen him; I know him! And you? Ah! he, too, would be my rival,--he, too, would bear thee from me!"
"You err," said Isabel, hastily and with a deep sigh,--"he pleads for you; he informed me of your love; he besought me not--not to reject it."
"Strange being, incomprehensible enigma, why did you name him?"
"Why? Ah! I would have asked whether, when you first saw him, the foreboding, the instinct, of which you spoke came on you more fearfully, more intelligibly than before; whether you felt at once repelled from him, yet attracted towards him; whether you felt [and the actress spoke with hurried animation] that with Him was connected the secret of your life!"
"All this I felt," answered Glyndon, in a trembling voice, "the first time I was in his presence. Though all around me was gay,--music, amidst lamp-lit trees, light converse near, and heaven without a cloud above,--my knees knocked together, my hair bristled, and my blood curdled like ice; since then he has divided my thoughts with thee."
"No more, no more," said Isabel, in a stifled tone; "there must be the hand of Fate in this. I can speak no more to you now; farewell."
She sprang past him into the house and closed the door. Glyndon did not dare to follow her, nor, strange as it may seem, was he so inclined. The thought and recollection of that moonlight hour in the gardens, of the strange address of Zicci, froze up all human pa.s.sion; Isabel herself, if not forgotten, shrank back like a shadow into the recesses of his breast. He shivered as he stepped into the sunlight, and musingly retraced his steps into the more populous parts of that liveliest of Italian cities.
CHAPTER VIII.
It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with pictures, one of which was worth more than the whole lineage of the owner of the palace.
Is not Art a wonderful thing? A Venetian n.o.ble might be a fribble or an a.s.sa.s.sin, a scoundrel, or a dolt, worthless, or worse than worthless; yet he might have sat to t.i.tian, and his portrait may be inestimable,--a few inches of painted canvas a thousand times more valuable than a man with his veins and muscles, brain, will, heart, and intellect!
In this cabinet sat a man of about three and forty,--dark-eyed, sallow, with short, prominent features, a ma.s.sive conformation of jaw, and thick, sensual, but resolute lips; this man was the Prince di--. His form, middle-sized, but rather inclined to corpulence, was clothed in a loose dressing-robe of rich brocade; on a table before him lay his sword and hat, a mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio, and an inkstand of silver curiously carved.
"Well, Mascari," said the Prince, looking up towards his parasite, who stood by the embrasure of the deep-set barricaded window, "well, you cannot even guess who this insolent meddler was? A pretty person you to act the part of a Prince"s Ruffiano!"
"Am I to be blamed for dulness in not being able to conjecture who had the courage to thwart the projects of the Prince di--. As well blame me for not accounting for miracles."
"I will tell thee who it was, most sapient Mascari."
"Who, your Excellency?"
"Zicci."
"Ah! he has the daring of the devil. But why does your Excellency feel so a.s.sured,--does he court the actress?"
"I know not; but there is a tone in that foreigner"s voice that I never can mistake,--so clear, and yet so hollow; when I hear it I almost fancy there is such a thing as conscience. However, we must rid ourselves of an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zicci hath not yet honored our poor house with his presence. He is a distinguished stranger,--we must give a banquet in his honor."
"Ah! and the cypress wine! The cypress is the proper emblem of the grave."
"But this anon. I am superst.i.tious; there are strange stories of his power and foresight,--remember the Sicilian quackery! But meanwhile the Pisani--"
"Your Excellency is infatuated. The actress has bewitched you."
"Mascari," said the Prince, with a haughty smile, "through these veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti,--of those who boasted that no woman ever escaped their l.u.s.t, and no man their resentment. The crown of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy,--their ambition and their spirit are undecayed. My honor is now enlisted in this pursuit: Isabel must be mine."
"Another ambuscade?" said Mascari, inquiringly.
"Nay, why not enter the house itself? The situation is lonely, and the door is not made of iron."
Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the chamber announced the Signor Zicci.
The Prince involuntarily laid his hand on the sword placed on the table; then, with a smile at his own impulse, rose, and met the foreigner at the threshold with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of Italian simulation.
"This is an honor highly prized," said the Prince; "I have long desired the friendship of one so distinguished--"
"And I have come to give you that friendship," replied Zicci, in a sweet but chilling voice. "To no man yet in Naples have I extended this hand: permit it, Prince, to grasp your own."
The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched it, a shiver came over him, and his heart stood still.
Zicci bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with a familiar air.
"Thus it is signed and sealed,--I mean our friendship, n.o.ble Prince.
And now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find, your Excellency, that, unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate our pretensions? A girl of no moment, an actress, bah! it is not worth a quarrel. Shall we throw for her? He who casts the lowest shall resign his claim?"
Mascari opened his small eyes to their widest extent; the Prince, no less surprised, but far too well world-read even to show what he felt, laughed aloud.
"And were you, then, the cavalier who spoiled my night"s chase and robbed me of my white doe? By Bacchus, it was prettily done."
"You must forgive me, my Prince; I knew not who it was, or my respect would have silenced my gallantry."
"All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Of course you profited by my defeat, and did not content yourself with leaving the little actress at her threshold?"
"She is Diana for me," answered Zicci, lightly; "whoever wins the wreath will not find a flower faded."
"And now you would cast for her,--well; but they tell me you are ever a sure player."
"Let Signor Mascari cast for us."
"Be it so. Mascari, the dice."
Surprised and perplexed, the parasite took up the three dice, deposited them gravely in the box, and rattled them noisily, while Zicci threw himself back carelessly in his chair and said, "I give the first chance to your Excellency."
Mascari interchanged a glance with his patron and threw the numbers were sixteen.
"It is a high throw," said Zicci, calmly; "nevertheless, Signor Mascari, I do not despond."
Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more upon the table; the number was the highest that can be thrown,--eighteen.
The Prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth staring at the dice, and shaking his head in puzzled wonder.