self-willed; her education neglected. I am
enslaved by her beauty, but I cannot wed her."

Zicci frowned.

"Your love, then, is but selfish lust; and by that love you will be
betrayed. Young man, Destiny is less inexorable than it appears. The
resources of the great Ruler of the Universe are not so scanty and so
stern as to deny to men the divine privilege of Free Will; all of us
can carve out our own way, and God can make our very contradictions
harmonize with His solemn ends. You have before you an option. Honorable
and generous love may even now work out your happiness and effect your
escape; a frantic and interested passion will but lead you to misery and
doom."

"Do you pretend, then, to read the Future?"

"I have said all that it pleases me to utter."

"While you assume the moralist to me, Signor Zicci," said Glyndon, with
a smile, "if report says true you do not yourself reject the allurements
of unfettered love."

"If it were necessary that practice square with precept," said Zicci,
with a sneer, "our pulpits would be empty. Do you think it matters, in
the great aggregate of human destinies, what one man's conduct may
be? Nothing,--not a grain of dust; but it matters much what are the
sentiments he propagates. His acts are limited and momentary; his
sentiments may pervade the universe, and inspire generations till the
day of doom. All our virtues, all our laws, are drawn from books and
maxims, which are sentiments, not from deeds. Our opinions, young
Englishman, are the angel part of us; our acts the earthly."

"You have reflected deeply, for an Italian," said Glyndon.

"Who told you I was an Italian?"

"Are you not of Corsica?"

"Tush!" said Zicci, impatiently turning away. Then, after a pause, he
resumed, in a mild voice: "Glyndon, do you renounce Isabel di Pisani?
Will you take three days to consider of what I have said?"

"Renounce her,--never!"

"Then you will marry her?"

"Impossible."

"Be it so; she will then renounce you. I tell you that you have rivals."

"Yes, the Prince di--; but I do not fear him."

"You have another, whom you will fear more."

"And who is he?"

"Myself."

Glyndon turned pale, and started from his seat.

"You, Signor Zicci, you,--and you dare to tell me so?"

"Dare! Alas! you know there is nothing on earth left me to fear!"

These words were not uttered arrogantly, but in a tone of the most
mournful dejection. Glyndon was enraged, confounded, and yet awe