In the above memorial the reader will find the most exact and minute account yet given of an event which created the most lively sensation at Naples in that day, and the narration of which first induced me to collect the materials of this history, which the reader will perceive, as it advances, is altogether different in its nature, its agencies, and its aims from those tales of external terror, whether derived from ingenious imposture or supernatural mystery, that have given life to French melodrama or German romance. CHAPTER XVII. Glyndon had taken no part in the affray, neither had he participated largely in the excesses of the revel. For his exemption from both he was perhaps indebted to the whispered exhortations of Zicci. When the last rose from the corpse and withdrew from that scene of confusion, Glyndon remarked that in passing the crowd he touched Mascari on the shoulder, and said something which the Englishman did not overhear. Glyndon followed Zicci into the banquet-room, which, save where the moonlight slept on the marble floor, was wrapped in the sad and gloomy shadows of the advancing night. “How could you foretell this fearful event? He fell not by your arm,” said Glyndon, in a tremulous and hollow tone. “The general who calculates on the victory does not fight in person,” answered Zicci. “But enough of this. Meet me at midnight by the seashore, half a mile to the left of your hotel,--you will know the spot by a rude pillar, the only one near--, to which a broken chain is attached. There and then will be the crisis of your fate; go. I have business here yet,--remember, Isabel is still in the house of the dead man.” As Glyndon yet hesitated, strange thoughts, doubts, and fears that longed for speech crowding within him, Mascari approached; and Zicci, turning to the Italian and waving his hand to Glyndon, drew the former aside. Glyndon slowly departed. “Mascari,” said Zicci, “your patron is no more. Your services will be valueless to his heir,--a sober man, whom poverty has preserved from vice. For yourself, thank me that I do not give you up to the executioner,--recollect the wine of Cyprus. Well, never tremble, man, it could not act on me, though it might re-act on others,--in that it is a common type of crime. I forgive you; and if the wine should kill me, I promise you that my ghost shall not haunt so worshipful a penitent. Enough of this. Conduct me to the chamber of Isabel di Pisani; you have no further need of her. The death of the jailer opens the cell of the captive. Be quick,--I would be gone.” Mascari muttered some inaudible words, bowed low, and led the way to the chamber in which Isabel was confined. CHAPTER XVIII.