would, ere this time, haye been a corpse; one minute more, and the vapour had done its work. Adieu ; good-night, and pleasant dreams."
"But, my preserver, you will not leave us," said Glyndon, anxiously, and speaking for the first time. "Will you not return with us?"
Zicci paused, and drew Glyndon aside. "Young man," said he, gravely, "it is necessary that we should again meet to-night. It is necessary that you should, ere the first hour of morning, decide on your fate. Will you marry Isabel di Pisani—or lose her for ever? Consult not your friend; he is sensible and wise, but not now is his wisdom needed. There are times in life when, from the imagination, and not the reason, should wisdom come this—for you is one of them. I ask not your answer now. Collect your thoughts—recover your jaded and scattered spirits. It wants two hours of midnight—at midnight I will be with you!"
"Incomprehensible being," replied the Englishman, "I would leave the life you have preserved in your own hands. But since I have known you my whole nature has changed. A fiercer desire than that of love burns in my veins—the desire not to, resemble, but to surpass my kind—the desire to penetrate and to share the secret of your own existence—the desire of a preternatural knowledge and unearthly power. Instruct me—school me make me thine; and I surrender to thee at once, and without a murmur, the woman, that till I saw thee, I would have defied a world to obtain."
"I ask not the sacrifice, Glyndon," replied Zicci coldly, yet mildly:—"yet, shall I own it to thee!—I am touched by the devotion I have inspired. I sicken for human companionship, sympathy, and friendship; yet, I dread to share them,—for bold must be the man who can partake my existence, and enjoy my confidence. Once more I say to thee, in compassion and in warning, the choice of life is in thy hands—to-morrow it will be too late. On the other hand, Isabel, a tranquil home, a happy and serene life:—on the one hand, all is darkness darkness, that even this eye cannot penetrate."
"But thou hast told me, that if I wed Isabel, I must be contented to be obscure; and if I refuse, that knowledge and power may be mine."
"Vain man! knowledge and power are not happiness."
" But they are better than happiness. Say—if I marry Isabel, wilt thou be my master—my guide?—say this and I am resolved."
"Never! It is only the lonely at heart—the restless—the desperate—that may be my pupils."
