The initiation is deferred,--thy days and nights are left to no other visions than those with which a contented heart enchants a guileless fancy. Glendoveers and Sylphs, pardon me if I question whether those visions are not lovelier than yourselves. They stand by the beach, and see the sun sinking into the sea. How long now have they dwelt on that island? What matters!--it may be months, or years--what matters! Why should I, or they, keep account of that happy time? As in the dream of a moment ages may seem to pass, so shall we measure transport or woe,--by the length of the dream, or the number of emotions that the dream involves? The sun sinks slowly down; the air is arid and oppressive; on the sea, the stately vessel lies motionless; on the shore, no leaf trembles on the trees. Viola drew nearer to Zanoni. A presentiment she could not define made her heart beat more quickly; and, looking into his face, she was struck with its expression: it was anxious, abstracted, perturbed. “This stillness awes me,” she whispered. Zanoni did not seem to hear her. He muttered to himself, and his eyes gazed round restlessly. She knew not why, but that gaze, which seemed to pierce into space,--that muttered voice in some foreign language--revived dimly her earlier superstitions. She was more fearful since the hour when she knew that she was to be a mother. Strange crisis in the life of woman, and in her love! Something yet unborn begins already to divide her heart with that which had been before its only monarch. “Look on me, Zanoni,” she said, pressing his hand. He turned: “Thou art pale, Viola; thy hand trembles!” “It is true. I feel as if some enemy were creeping near us.” “And the instinct deceives thee not. An enemy is indeed at hand. I see it through the heavy air; I hear it through the silence: the Ghostly One,--the Destroyer, the PESTILENCE! Ah, seest thou how the leaves swarm with insects, only by an effort visible to the eye. They follow the breath of the plague!” As he spoke, a bird fell from the boughs at Viola’s feet; it fluttered, it writhed an instant, and was dead. “Oh, Viola!” cried Zanoni, passionately, “that is death. Dost thou not fear to die?” “To leave thee? Ah, yes!” “And if I could teach thee how Death may be defied; if I could arrest for thy youth the course of time; if I could--” He paused abruptly, for Viola’s eyes spoke only terror; her cheek and lips were pale. “Speak not thus,--look not thus,” she said, recoiling from him. “You dismay me. Ah, speak not thus, or I should tremble,--no, not for myself, but for thy child.” “Thy child! But wouldst thou reject for thy child the same glorious boon?” “Zanoni!” “Well!”