vineyard that clambers up the rock, and gained the lofty spot, green
with moss and luxuriant foliage, where the dust of him who yet soothes
and elevates the minds of men is believed to rest. From afar rose the
huge fortress of St. Elmo, frowning darkly amidst spires and domes that
glittered in the sun. Lulled in its azure splendour lay the Siren's sea;
and the grey smoke of Vesuvius, in the clear distance, soared like
a moving pillar into the lucid sky. Motionless on the brink of the
precipice, Viola looked upon the lovely and living world that stretched
below; and the sullen vapour of Vesuvius fascinated her eye yet more
than the scattered gardens, or the gleaming Caprea, smiling amidst the
smiles of the sea. She heard not a step that had followed her on her
path and started to hear a voice at hand. So sudden was the apparition
of the form that stood by her side, emerging from the bushes that clad
the crags, and so singularly did it harmonise in its uncouth ugliness
with the wild nature of the scene immediately around her, and the wizard
traditions of the place, that the colour left her cheek, and a faint cry
broke from her lips.

"Tush, pretty trembler!--do not be frightened at my face," said the
man, with a bitter smile. "After three months' marriage, there is no
different between ugliness and beauty. Custom is a great leveller. I was
coming to your house when I saw you leave it; so, as I have matters of
importance to communicate, I ventured to follow your footsteps. My name
is Jean Nicot, a name already favourably known as a French artist. The
art of painting and the art of music are nearly connected, and the stage
is an altar that unites the two."

There was something frank and unembarrassed in the man's address that
served to dispel the fear his appearance had occasioned. He seated
himself, as he spoke, on a crag beside her, and, looking up steadily
into her face, continued:--

"You are very beautiful, Viola Pisani, and I am not surprised at the
number of your admirers. If I presume to place myself in the list, it is
because I am the only one who loves thee honestly, and woos thee fairly.
Nay, look not so indignant! Listen to me. Has the Prince di -- ever
spoken to thee of marriage; or the beautiful imposter Zanoni, or the
young blue-eyed Englishman, Clarence Glyndon? It is marriage,--it is a
home, it is safety, it is reputation, that I offer to thee; and these
last when the straight form grows crooked, and the