irresistibly drawn
towards the very man he had most cause to suspect and dread. It was like
the fascination of the basilisk. He held out his hand to Zicci, saying,
"Well, then, if we are to be rivals, our swords must settle our rights;
till then I would fain be friends."

"Friends! Pardon me, I like you too well to give you my friendship. You
know not what you ask."

"Enigmas again!"

"Enigmas!" cried Zicci, passionately, "Nay: can you dare to solve
them! Would you brave all that human heart can conceive of peril and
of horror, so that you at last might stand separated from this visible
universe side by side with me? When you can dare this, and when you are
fit to dare it, I may give you my right hand and call you friend."

"I could dare everything and all things for the attainment of superhuman
wisdom," said Glyndon; and his countenance was lighted up with wild and
intense enthusiasm.

Zicci observed him in thoughtful silence.

"He may be worthy," he muttered; "he may, yet--" He broke off abruptly;
then, speaking aloud, "Go, Glyndon," said he; "in three days we shall
meet again."

"Where?"

"Perhaps where you can least anticipate. In any case, we shall meet."

CHAPTER VI.

Glyndon thought seriously and deeply over all that the mysterious Zicci
had said to him relative to Isabel. His imagination was inflamed by the
vague and splendid promises that were connected with his marriage with
the poor actress. His fears, too, were naturally aroused by the threat
that by marriage alone could he save himself from the rivalry of
Zicci,--Zicci, born to dazzle and command; Zicci, who united to the
apparent wealth of a monarch the beauty of a god; Zicci, whose eye
seemed to foresee, whose hand to frustrate, every danger. What a rival,
and what a foe!

But Glyndon's pride, as well as jealousy, was aroused. He was brave
comme son epee. Should he shrink from the power or the enmity of a man
mortal as himself? And why should Zicci desire him to give his name and
station to one of a calling so equivocal? Might there not be motives he
could not fathom? Might not the actress and the Corsican be in league
with each other? Might not all this jargon of prophecy--and menace be
but artifices to dupe him,--the tool, perhaps, of a mountebank and
his mistress! Mistress,--ah, no! If ever maidenhood wrote its modest
characters externally, that pure eye, that noble forehead, that mien
and manner so ingenuous even in their coquetry