“Most serious. You love Isabel di Pisani; you have for rival one of the most powerful and relentless of the Neapolitan princes. Your danger is indeed great.” “But, pardon me, how came it known to you?” “I give no account of myself to mortal man,” replied Zicci, haughtily; “and to me it matters not whether you regard or scorn my warning.” “Well, if I may not question you, be it so; but at least advise me what to do.” “You will not follow my advice.” “You wrong me! Why?” “Because you are constitutionally brave; you are fond of excitement and mystery; you like to be the hero of a romance. I should advise you to leave Naples, and you will disdain to do so while Naples contains a foe to shun or a mistress to pursue.” “You are right,” said the young Englishman, with energy; “and you cannot reproach me for such a resolution.” “No, there is another course left to you. Do you love Isabel di Pisani truly and fervently? If so, marry her, and take a bride to your native land.” “Nay,” answered Glyndon, embarrassed. “Isabel is not of my rank; her character is strange and self-willed; her education neglected. I am enslaved by her beauty, but I cannot wed her.” Zicci frowned. “Your love, then, is but selfish lust; and by that love you will be betrayed. Young man, Destiny is less inexorable than it appears. The resources of the great Ruler of the Universe are not so scanty and so stern as to deny to men the divine privilege of Free Will; all of us can carve out our own way, and God can make our very contradictions harmonize with His solemn ends. You have before you an option. Honorable and generous love may even now work out your happiness and effect your escape; a frantic and interested passion will but lead you to misery and doom.” “Do you pretend, then, to read the Future?” “I have said all that it pleases me to utter.” “While you assume the moralist to me, Signor Zicci,” said Glyndon, with a smile, “if report says true you do not yourself reject the allurements of unfettered love.” “If it were necessary that practice square with precept,” said Zicci, with a sneer, “our pulpits would be empty. Do you think it matters, in the great aggregate of human destinies, what one man’s conduct may be? Nothing,--not a grain of dust; but it matters much what are the sentiments he propagates. His acts are limited and momentary; his sentiments may pervade the universe, and inspire generations till the day of doom. All our virtues, all our laws, are drawn from books and maxims, which are sentiments, not from deeds. Our opinions, young Englishman, are the angel part of us; our acts the earthly.” “You have reflected deeply, for an Italian,” said Glyndon. “Who told you I was an Italian?” “Are you not of Corsica?” “Tush!” said Zicci, impatiently turning away. Then, after a pause, he resumed, in a mild voice: “Glyndon, do you renounce Isabel di Pisani? Will you take three days to consider of what I have said?” “Renounce her,--never!”