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Updated: June 3, 2025
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.
The girl listened to him, perhaps from vanity, perhaps from ambition, perhaps from coquetry; she listened, and allowed but few stolen interviews, in which she permitted no favor to the Englishman it was one reason why he loved her so much. The day following that on which our story opens, Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the Cavern of Pausilippo.
"You are right," said the young Englishman, with energy; "and you cannot reproach me for such a resolution." "No, there is another course left to you. Do you love Isabel di Pisani truly and fervently? If so, marry her, and take a bride to your native land." "Nay," answered Glyndon, embarrassed. "Isabel is not of my rank; her character is strange and self-willed; her education neglected.
At the entrance of the reception-rooms he found a page, whom he despatched with a message to Zicci. The page did the errand; and the Corsican, on hearing the whispered name of Glyndon, turned to his host. The business must indeed be urgent on which he has sought me in such an hour. You will forgive my momentary absence."
"You need not fear," said Glyndon, smiling; "my preceptor is too wise and too good for such a compact. But here we are, I suppose. A noble ruin! A glorious prospect!" Glyndon paused delightedly, and surveyed the scene before and below with the eye of a poet and a painter.
You have been neglected from your childhood; you have been thrown among nations at once frivolous and coarse; your nobler dispositions, your higher qualities, are not developed. You were pleased with the admiration of Glyndon; you thought that the passionate stranger might marry you, while others had only uttered the vows that dishonor.
"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.
Without being a poet, Glyndon had also manifested a graceful faculty for verse, which had contributed to win his entry into society above his birth.
Glyndon turned, and his heart beat when he perceived that the stranger, whose footsteps he had not heard on the pebbles, whose approach he had not beheld in the moonlight, was once more by his side. Glyndon's eyes followed the receding form of the mysterious Corsican.
Isabel could not see me to-night. The old woman gave me a note of excuse." "You must not marry her; what would they all say at home?" "Let us enjoy the present," said Glyndon, with vivacity; "we are young, rich, good-looking: let us not think of to-morrow." "Bravo, Glyndon! Here we are at the hotel. Sleep sound, and don't dream of Signor Zicci."
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