dent visited the church that morning; that he had observed the tombstone of the Count Salvolio; that his guide had told him the Count's son was in Naples,—a spendthrift and a gambler. While we were at play, he had heard the Count mentioned by name at the table; and when the challenge was given and accepted, it had occurred to him to name the place of burial, by an instinct he could not account for."
"A very lame story," said Merton.
"Yes! but we Italians are superstitious;—the alleged instinct was regarded as the whisper of Providence—the stranger became an object of universal interest and curiosity. His wealth, his manner of living, his extraordinary personal beauty, have assisted also to make him the rage."
"What is his name?" asked Glyndon.
"Zicci. Signer Zicci."
"Is it not an Italian name? He speaks English like a native."
"So he does French and German, as well as Italian, to my knowledge. But he declares himself a Corsican by birth, though I cannot hear of any eminent Corsican family of that name. However, what matters his birth or parentage; he is rich, generous, and the best swordsman I ever saw in my life. Who would affront him?"
"Not I, certainly," said Merton, rising. "Come, Glyndon; shall we seek our hotel? It is almost daylight. Adieu, signer."
"What think you of this story?" said Glyndon, as the young men walked homeward.
"Why, it is very clear that this Zicci is some impostor—some clever rogue; and the Neapolitan shares booty, and puffs him off with all the hackneyed charlatanism of the marvellous. An unknown adventurer gets into society, by being made an object of awe and curiosity;—he is devilish handsome; and the women are quite content to receive him without any other recommendation than his own face and Cetoxa's fables."
"I cannot agree with you. Cetoxa, though a gambler and a rake, is a nobleman of birth and high repute for courage and honour. Besides, this stranger, with his grand features and lofty air—so calm—so unobtrusive has nothing in common with the forward garrulity of an impostor."
"My dear Glyndon, pardon me; but you have not yet acquired any knowledge of the world: the stranger makes the best of a fine person, and his grand air is but a trick of the trade. But to change the subject:—how gets on the love affair?"
"O, Isabel could not see me to-night. The old woman gave me a note of excuse."
