Isabel gazed upon him in wonder and fear. Her countenance was as white as marble, and those features, so divine in their rare symmetry, might have served the Greek with a study for the Pythoness when, from the mystic cavern and the bubbling spring, she first hears the voice of the inspiring god. Gradually the rigor and tension of that wonderful face relaxed, the color returned, the pulse beat, the heart animated the frame. “Tell me,” she said, turning partially aside, “tell me, have you seen, do you know, a stranger in this city,--one of whom wild stories are afloat?” “You speak of Zicci. I have seen him; I know him! And you? Ah! he, too, would be my rival,--he, too, would bear thee from me!” “You err,” said Isabel, hastily and with a deep sigh,--“he pleads for you; he informed me of your love; he besought me not--not to reject it.” “Strange being, incomprehensible enigma, why did you name him?” “Why? Ah! I would have asked whether, when you first saw him, the foreboding, the instinct, of which you spoke came on you more fearfully, more intelligibly than before; whether you felt at once repelled from him, yet attracted towards him; whether you felt [and the actress spoke with hurried animation] that with Him was connected the secret of your life!” “All this I felt,” answered Glyndon, in a trembling voice, “the first time I was in his presence. Though all around me was gay,--music, amidst lamp-lit trees, light converse near, and heaven without a cloud above,--my knees knocked together, my hair bristled, and my blood curdled like ice; since then he has divided my thoughts with thee.” “No more, no more,” said Isabel, in a stifled tone; “there must be the hand of Fate in this. I can speak no more to you now; farewell.” She sprang past him into the house and closed the door. Glyndon did not dare to follow her, nor, strange as it may seem, was he so inclined. The thought and recollection of that moonlight hour in the gardens, of the strange address of Zicci, froze up all human passion; Isabel herself, if not forgotten, shrank back like a shadow into the recesses of his breast. He shivered as he stepped into the sunlight, and musingly retraced his steps into the more populous parts of that liveliest of Italian cities. CHAPTER VIII. It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with pictures, one of which was worth more than the whole lineage of the owner of the palace. Is not Art a wonderful thing? A Venetian noble might be a fribble or an assassin, a scoundrel, or a dolt, worthless, or worse than worthless; yet he might have sat to Titian, and his portrait may be inestimable,--a few inches of painted canvas a thousand times more valuable than a man with his veins and muscles, brain, will, heart, and intellect!