“As you will; I have done.”

“Let me speak frankly,—­your conversation last night interested and perplexed me.”

“I know it:  minds like yours are attracted by mystery.”

Glyndon was piqued at these words, though in the tone in which they were spoken there was no contempt.

“I see you do not consider me worthy of your friendship.  Be it so.  Good-day!”

Zanoni coldly replied to the salutation; and as the Englishman rode on, returned to his botanical employment.

The same night, Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre.  He was standing behind the scenes watching Viola, who was on the stage in one of her most brilliant parts.  The house resounded with applause.  Glyndon was transported with a young man’s passion and a young man’s pride:  “This glorious creature,” thought he, “may yet be mine.”

He felt, while thus wrapped in delicious reverie, a slight touch upon his shoulder; he turned, and beheld Zanoni.  “You are in danger,” said the latter.  “Do not walk home to-night; or if you do, go not alone.”

Before Glyndon recovered from his surprise, Zanoni disappeared; and when the Englishman saw him again, he was in the box of one of the Neapolitan nobles, where Glyndon could not follow him.

Viola now left the stage, and Glyndon accosted her with an unaccustomed warmth of gallantry.  But Viola, contrary to her gentle habit, turned with an evident impatience from the address of her lover.  Taking aside Gionetta, who was her constant attendant at the theatre, she said, in an earnest whisper,—­

“Oh, Gionetta!  He is here again!—­the stranger of whom I spoke to thee!—­and again, he alone, of the whole theatre, withholds from me his applause.”

“Which is he, my darling?” said the old woman, with fondness in her voice.  “He must indeed be dull—­not worth a thought.”

The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a man in one of the boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the simplicity of his dress, and the extraordinary beauty of his features.

“Not worth a thought, Gionetta!” repeated Viola,—­“Not worth a thought!  Alas, not to think of him, seems the absence of thought itself!”

The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani.  “Find out his name, Gionetta,” said she, moving slowly to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.

The scene on which the actress now entered was that of the final catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable powers of voice and art were pre-eminently called forth.  The house hung on every word with breathless worship; but the eyes of Viola sought only those of one calm and unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired.  Zanoni listened, and observed her with an attentive gaze, but no approval escaped his lips; no emotion changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful aspect.  Viola, who was