Fire! Light! What have we here? Zamorna’s self, blazing in the frontispiece like the sun on his own standard. De Lisle has given him to us in full regimentals—plumed, epauletted, and sabred (I wish the last were literally true, by-the-bye!). All his usual insufferableness or irresistibleness, or whatever the ladies choose to call it, surrounding him like an atmosphere, he stands as if a thunderbolt could neither blast the light of his eyes nor dash the effrontery of his brow. Keen, glorious being! tempered and bright and sharp and rapid as the scimitar at his side when whirled by the delicate yet vigorous hand that now grasps the bridle of a horse to all appearance as viciously beautiful as himself. O Zamorna! what eyes those are glancing under the deep shadow of that raven crest! They bode no good. Man nor woman could ever gather more than a troubled, fitful happiness from their kindest light, Satan gave them their glory to deepen the midnight gloom that always follows where their lustre has fallen most lovingly. This, indeed, is something different from Percy. All here is passion and fire unquenchable. Impetuous sin, stormy pride, diving and soaring enthusiasm, war and poetry, are kindling their fires in all his veins, and his wild blood boils from his heart and back again like a torrent of new-sprung lava. Young duke? Young demon! I have looked at you till words seemed to issue from your lips in those fine electric tones, as clear and profound as the silver chords of a harp, which steal affections like a charm. I think I see him bending his head to speak to the Countess Zenobia or the Princess Maria or Lady Julia or perhaps Queen Henrietta, while he whispers words that touch the heart like a ‘melody that’s sweetly played in tune.’ A low wind rises and sighs slowly onward. Suddenly his plumes rustle; their haughty shadow sweeps over his forehead; the eye,—the full, dark, refulgent eye,—lightens most gloriously; his curls are all stirred; smiles dawn on his lip. Suddenly he lifts his head, flings back the feathers, and clusters of bright hair, and, while he stands erect and god-like, his regards (as the French say) bent on the lady, whoever it be, who by this time is of course seriously debating whether he be man or angel, a momentary play of indescribable expression round the mouth, and elevation of the eyebrows, tell how the stream of thought runs at that moment; the mind which so noble a form enshrines! Detestable wretch!—I hate him!