“Unfortunate for him, if we met here!”

“How fearless!  Yet he is subtler than the snake in Eden.  I fear him as I detest him.”

“Why fear him?”

“That I cannot tell.  Some secret sign, some unspeakable intuition, assures me of injury through him.”

“Dearest, put it by.  The strength of all these surrounding leagues with their swarm does not flow through his wrist, as it does through mine.  He is more powerless than the mote in the air.”

“You are so confident!” she said.

“How can I be anything else than confident?  The very signs in the sky speak for us, and half the priests are ours, and the land itself is an oath.  Look out, Lenore!  Look down on these purple fields that so sweetly are taking nightfall; look on these rills that braid the landscape and sing toward the sea; see yonder the row of columns that have watched above the ruins of their temple for centuries, to wait this hour; behold the heaven, that, lucid as one dome of amethyst, darkens over us and blooms in star on star;—­was ever such beauty?  Ah, take this wandering wind,—­was ever such sweetness?  And since every inch of earth is historic,—­since here rose glory to fill the world with wide renown,—­since here the heroes walked, the gods came down,—­since Oreads haunt the hill, and Nereids seek the shore”—­

“Whereabout do Nereids seek the shore?” she archly asked.

“Why, if you must have data,” I answered, laughing, “let us say Naples.”

“What is that you have to say of Naples?” demanded a voice in the door-way,—­and turning, I confronted the Neapolitan.

She had started back at the abrupt apparition, and before she could recover, stung by rage and surprise I had replied,—­

“What have I to say of Naples?  That its tyrant walks in blood to his knees!”

A man, I, with my hot furies, to be intrusted with the commonwealth!

“I will trouble you to repeat that sentence at some day,” he said.

“Here and now, if you will!” I uttered, my hand on my hilt.

“Thanks.  Not here and now.  It will answer, if you remember it then.—­I hope I see Her Highness well.  Pardon this little brusquerie, I pray.  The southern air is kind to loveliness:  I regret to bring with me Her Highness’s recall.”

She replied in the same courteous air, inquired concerning her acquaintance, and ordered lights,—­took the letter he brought, and held it, still sealed, in the taper’s flame till it fell in ashes.

“Signor,” she said, lifting the white atoms of dust and sifting them through her fingers, “you may carry back these as my reply.”

“Nay, I do not return,” he answered.  “And, Signorina, many things are pardoned to one in—­your condition.  Recover your senses, and you will find this so among others.”

Then, as coolly as if nothing had happened, he spoke of the affairs of the day, the tendency of measures, the feeling of the people, and finally rose, kissed her hand, and departed.  He was joined without by the little Viennois, and the accursed couple sauntered down the street together.  I should have gone then,—­the place was no longer safe for me,—­but something, the old spell, yet detained me.