kened his grosser senses, have blunted his imagination. I
relinquish him to his doom."

"And still, then, Mejnour, you cherish the desire to revive our
order, limited now to ourselves alone, by new converts and allies.
Surely--surely--thy experience might have taught thee, that scarcely
once in a thousand years is born the being who can pass through the
horrible gates that lead into the worlds without! Is not thy path
already strewed with thy victims? Do not their ghastly faces of agony
and fear--the blood-stained suicide, the raving maniac--rise before
thee, and warn what is yet left to thee of human sympathy from thy
insane ambition?"

"Nay," answered Mejnour; "have I not had success to counterbalance
failure? And can I forego this lofty and august hope, worthy alone of
our high condition,--the hope to form a mighty and numerous race with
a force and power sufficient to permit them to acknowledge to mankind
their majestic conquests and dominion, to become the true lords of this
planet, invaders, perchance, of others, masters of the inimical and
malignant tribes by which at this moment we are surrounded: a race
that may proceed, in their deathless destinies, from stage to stage of
celestial glory, and rank at last amongst the nearest ministrants and
agents gathered round the Throne of Thrones? What matter a thousand
victims for one convert to our band? And you, Zanoni," continued
Mejnour, after a pause,--"you, even you, should this affection for a
mortal beauty that you have dared, despite yourself, to cherish, be more
than a passing fancy; should it, once admitted into your inmost nature,
partake of its bright and enduring essence,--even you may brave all
things to raise the beloved one into your equal. Nay, interrupt me not.
Can you see sickness menace her; danger hover around; years creep on;
the eyes grow dim; the beauty fade, while the heart, youthful still,
clings and fastens round your own,--can you see this, and know it is
yours to--"

"Cease!" cried Zanoni, fiercely. "What is all other fate as compared
to the death of terror? What, when the coldest sage, the most heated
enthusiast, the hardiest warrior with his nerves of iron, have been
found dead in their beds, with straining eyeballs and horrent hair,
at the first step of the Dread Progress,--thinkest thou that this
weak woman--from whose cheek a sound at the window, the screech of the
night-owl, the sight of a drop of blood on a man's sword, would start