In this cabinet sat a man of about three and forty,--dark-eyed, sallow, with short, prominent features, a massive conformation of jaw, and thick, sensual, but resolute lips; this man was the Prince di--. His form, middle-sized, but rather inclined to corpulence, was clothed in a loose dressing-robe of rich brocade; on a table before him lay his sword and hat, a mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio, and an inkstand of silver curiously carved. “Well, Mascari,” said the Prince, looking up towards his parasite, who stood by the embrasure of the deep-set barricaded window, “well, you cannot even guess who this insolent meddler was? A pretty person you to act the part of a Prince’s Ruffiano!” “Am I to be blamed for dulness in not being able to conjecture who had the courage to thwart the projects of the Prince di--. As well blame me for not accounting for miracles.” “I will tell thee who it was, most sapient Mascari.” “Who, your Excellency?” “Zicci.” “Ah! he has the daring of the devil. But why does your Excellency feel so assured,--does he court the actress?” “I know not; but there is a tone in that foreigner’s voice that I never can mistake,--so clear, and yet so hollow; when I hear it I almost fancy there is such a thing as conscience. However, we must rid ourselves of an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zicci hath not yet honored our poor house with his presence. He is a distinguished stranger,--we must give a banquet in his honor.” “Ah! and the cypress wine! The cypress is the proper emblem of the grave.” “But this anon. I am superstitious; there are strange stories of his power and foresight,--remember the Sicilian quackery! But meanwhile the Pisani--” “Your Excellency is infatuated. The actress has bewitched you.” “Mascari,” said the Prince, with a haughty smile, “through these veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti,--of those who boasted that no woman ever escaped their lust, and no man their resentment. The crown of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy,--their ambition and their spirit are undecayed. My honor is now enlisted in this pursuit: Isabel must be mine.” “Another ambuscade?” said Mascari, inquiringly. “Nay, why not enter the house itself? The situation is lonely, and the door is not made of iron.” Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the chamber announced the Signor Zicci. The Prince involuntarily laid his hand on the sword placed on the table; then, with a smile at his own impulse, rose, and met the foreigner at the threshold with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of Italian simulation. “This is an honor highly prized,” said the Prince; “I have long desired the friendship of one so distinguished--” “And I have come to give you that friendship,” replied Zicci, in a sweet but chilling voice. “To no man yet in Naples have I extended this hand: permit it, Prince, to grasp your own.”