“Ah, no!” said the actress, her eyes filling with tears, “it is a miserable lot to be slave to a multitude.” “Fly then with me,” said the artist, passionately. “Quit forever the calling that divides that heart I would have all my own. Share my fate now and forever,--my pride, my delight, my ideal! Thou shalt inspire my canvas and my song, thy beauty shall be made at once holy and renowned. In the galleries of princes crowds shall gather round the effigy of a Venus or a saint, and a whisper shall break forth, ‘It is Isabel di Pisani!’ Ah! Isabel, I adore thee: tell me that I do not worship in vain.” “Thou art good and fair,” said Isabel, gazing on her lover as he pressed his cheek nearer to hers, and clasped her hand in his. “But what should I give thee in return?” “Love, love; only love!” “A sister’s love?” “Ah, speak not with such cruel coldness!” “It is all I have for thee. Listen to me, signor. When I look on your face, when I hear your voice, a certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over and lulls thoughts, oh, how feverish, how wild! When thou art gone, the day seems a shade more dark; but the shadow soon flies. I miss thee not, I think not of thee,--no, I love thee not; and I will give myself only where I love.” “But I would teach thee to love me,--fear it not. Nay, such love as thou now describest in our tranquil climates is the love of innocence and youth.” “And it is the innocence he would destroy,” said Isabel, rather to herself than to him. Glyndon drew back, conscience-stricken. “No, it may not be!” she said, rising, and extricating her hand gently from his grasp. “Leave me, and forget me. You do not understand, you could not comprehend, the nature of her whom you think to love. From my childhood upward, I have felt as if I were marked out for some strange and preternatural doom; as if I were singled from my kind. This feeling (and, oh! at times it is one of delirious and vague delight, at others of the darkest gloom) deepens with me day by day. It is like the shadow of twilight, spreading slowly and solemnly round. My hour approaches; a little while, and it will be night!” As she spoke, Glyndon listened with visible emotion and perturbation. “Isabel!” he exclaimed, as she ceased, “your words more than ever enchain me to you. As you feel, I feel. I, too, have been ever haunted with a chill and unearthly foreboding. Amidst the crowds of men I have felt alone. In all my pleasures, my toils, my pursuits, a warning voice has murmured in my ear, ‘Time has a dark mystery in store for thy manhood.’ When you spoke it was as the voice of my own soul.”