Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more upon the table; the number was the highest that can be thrown,--eighteen. The Prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth staring at the dice, and shaking his head in puzzled wonder. "I have won, you see," said Zicci: "may we be friends still?" "Signor," said the Prince, obviously struggling with angel and confusion, "the victory is already yours. But, pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl,--will anything tempt you to yield your claim?" "Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry." "Enough," said the Prince, forcing a smile, "I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously: will you honor me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give on the royal birthday?" "It is indeed a happiness to hear one command of yours which I can obey." Zicci then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly and soon afterwards departed. "Villain," then exclaimed the Prince, grasping Mascari by the collar, "you have betrayed me!" "I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged,--he should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that's the end of it." "There is no time to be lost," said the Prince, quitting hold of his parasite, who quietly resettled his cravat. "My blood is up! I will win this girl, if I die for it. Who laughed? Mascari, didst thou laugh?" "I, your Excellency,--I laugh?" "It sounded behind me," said the Prince, gazing round. CHAPTER IX. It was the day on which Zicci had told Glyndon that he should ask for his decision in respect to Isabel,--the third day since their last meeting. The Englishman could not come to a resolution. Ambition, hitherto the leading passion of his soul, could not yet be silenced by love, and that love, such as it was, unreturned, beset by suspicions and doubts which vanished in the presence of Isabel, and returned when her bright face shone on his eyes no more, for les absents ont toujours tort. Perhaps had he been quite alone, his feelings of honor, of compassion, of virtue, might have triumphed, and he would have resolved either to fly from Isabel or to offer the love that has no shame. But Merton, cold, cautious, experienced, wary (such a nature has ever power over the imaginative and the impassioned), was at hand to ridicule the impression produced by Zicci, and the notion of delicacy and honor towards an Italian actress. It is true that Merton, who was no profligate, advised him to quit all pursuit of Isabel; but then the advice was precisely of that character which, if it deadens love, stimulates passion. By representing Isabel as one who sought to play a part with him, he excused to Glyndon his own selfishness,--he enlisted the Englishman's vanity and pride on the side of his pursuit. Why should not he beat an adventuress at her own weapons?