shrinking from his side:—leave me;—I fear no danger. My life, and therefore my honour, is in mine own hands."
"Be not so mad," said Zicci. "Hark! do you hear the neigh of my steed? it is an alarm that warns us of the approaching peril:—haste, or you are lost."
"Why do you care for me?" said the girl, bitterly. "Thou hast read my heart : thou knowest that I would fly with thee to the end of the world, if I were but sure of thy love;—that all sacrifice of womanhood's repute were sweet to me, if regarded as the proof and seal of affection. But to be bound beneath the weight of a cold obligation—to be the beggar on the eyes of Indifference—to throw myself on one who loves me not—that were indeed the vilest sin of my sex. Ah! Zicci, rather let me die."
She had thrown back her clustering hair from her face as she spoke, and as she now stood with her arms drooping mournfully, and her hands clasped together with the proud bitterness of her wayward spirit, giving new zest and charm to her singular beauty, it was impossible to conceive a sight more irresistible to the senses and the heart.
"Tempt me not to thine own danger—perhaps destruction," exclaimed Zicci, in faltering accents. "Thou canst not dream of what thou wouldest demand—come;" and, advancing, he wound his arm round her waist,—"come, Isabel; believe at least in my friendship—my protection—"
"And not thy love," said the Italian, turning on him her hurried and reproachful eyes. Those eyes met his, and he could not withdraw from the charm of their gaze. He felt her heart throbbing beneath his own her breath came warm upon his cheek. He trembled—he!—the lofty—the mysterious—Zicci—who seemed to stand aloof from his race. With a deep and burning sigh, he murmured, "Isabel, I love thee!"
That beautiful face, bathed in blushes, drooped upon his bosom; and, as he bent down, his lips sought the rosy mouth:—a long and burning kiss—danger —life—the world was forgotten! Suddenly Zicci tore himself from her.
"Oh, what have I said?—It is gone my power to preserve thee—to guard thee—to foresee the storm in thy skies is gone for ever. No matter! Haste—haste; and may love supply the loss of prophecy and power!"
Isabel hesitated no more. She threw her mantle over her shoulders, and gathered up her dishevelled hair;—a moment—and she was prepared—when a sudden crash was heard in the inner room.
"Too late!—fool that I was—too late!" cried Zicci, in a sharp
