“On this earth, men are often, without their own agency, fated to be dangerous to others. If I were to predict your fortune by the vain calculations of the astrologer, I should tell you, in their despicable jargon, that my planet sat darkly in your house of life. Cross me not, if you can avoid it. I warn you now for the first time and last.” “You despise the astrologers, yet you utter a jargon as mysterious as theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel; why, then, should I fear you?” “As you will; I have done.” “Let me speak frankly,--your conversation last night interested and perplexed me.” “I know it: minds like yours are attracted by mystery.” Glyndon was piqued at these words, though in the tone in which they were spoken there was no contempt. “I see you do not consider me worthy of your friendship. Be it so. Good-day!” Zanoni coldly replied to the salutation; and as the Englishman rode on, returned to his botanical employment. The same night, Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre. He was standing behind the scenes watching Viola, who was on the stage in one of her most brilliant parts. The house resounded with applause. Glyndon was transported with a young man’s passion and a young man’s pride: “This glorious creature,” thought he, “may yet be mine.” He felt, while thus wrapped in delicious reverie, a slight touch upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld Zanoni. “You are in danger,” said the latter. “Do not walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.” Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zanoni disappeared; and when the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan nobles, where Glyndon could not follow him. Viola now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her with an unaccustomed warmth of gallantry. But Viola, contrary to her gentle habit, turned with an evident impatience from the address of her lover. Taking aside Gionetta, who was her constant attendant at the theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper,-- “Oh, Gionetta! He is here again!--the stranger of whom I spoke to thee!--and again, he alone, of the whole theatre, withholds from me his applause.” “Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, with fondness in her voice. “He must indeed be dull--not worth a thought.” The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a man in one of the boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the simplicity of his dress, and the extraordinary beauty of his features. “Not worth a thought, Gionetta!” repeated Viola,--“Not worth a thought! Alas, not to think of him, seems the absence of thought itself!” The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. “Find out his name, Gionetta,” said she, moving slowly to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.