“You know then that Viola, whom you boasted you had the power to save from danger—­”

“Is in this house!—­yes.  I know also that Murder sits at the right hand of our host.  But his fate is now separated from hers forever; and the mirror which glasses it to my eye is clear through the streams of blood.  Be still, and learn the fate that awaits the wicked!

“My lord,” said Zanoni, speaking aloud, “the Signor Glyndon has indeed brought me tidings not wholly unexpected.  I am compelled to leave Naples,—­an additional motive to make the most of the present hour.”

“And what, if I may venture to ask, may be the cause that brings such affliction on the fair dames of Naples?”

“It is the approaching death of one who honoured me with most loyal friendship,” replied Zanoni, gravely.  “Let us not speak of it; grief cannot put back the dial.  As we supply by new flowers those that fade in our vases, so it is the secret of worldly wisdom to replace by fresh friendships those that fade from our path.”

“True philosophy!” exclaimed the prince. “‘Not to admire,’ was the Roman’s maxim; ‘Never to mourn,’ is mine.  There is nothing in life to grieve for, save, indeed, Signor Zanoni, when some young beauty, on whom we have set our hearts, slips from our grasp.  In such a moment we have need of all our wisdom, not to succumb to despair, and shake hands with death.  What say you, signor?  You smile!  Such never could be your lot.  Pledge me in a sentiment, ’Long life to the fortunate lover,—­a quick release to the baffled suitor’?”

“I pledge you,” said Zanoni; and, as the fatal wine was poured into his glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on the prince, “I pledge you even in this wine!”

He lifted the glass to his lips.  The prince seemed ghastly pale, while the gaze of his guest bent upon him, with an intent and stern brightness, beneath which the conscience-stricken host cowered and quailed.  Not till he had drained his draft, and replaced the glass upon the board, did Zanoni turn his eyes from the prince; and he then said, “Your wine has been kept too long; it has lost its virtues.  It might disagree with many, but do not fear:  it will not harm me, prince, Signor Mascari, you are a judge of the grape; will you favour us with your opinion?”

“Nay,” answered Mascari, with well-affected composure, “I like not the wines of Cyprus; they are heating.  Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have the same distaste?  The English are said to love their potations warm and pungent.”

“Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, prince?” said Zanoni.  “Recollect, all cannot drink it with the same impunity as myself.”

“No,” said the prince, hastily; “if you do not recommend the wine, Heaven forbid that we should constrain our guests!  My lord duke,” turning to one of the Frenchmen, “yours is the true soil of Bacchus.  What think you of this cask from Burgundy?  Has it borne the journey?”