Alone, in that room so often filled, in the old happy days, with the wild melodies of Pisani; and now, as she saw this mysterious, haunting, yet beautiful and stately stranger, standing on the very spot where she had sat at her father’s feet, thrilled and spellbound,—­she almost thought, in her fantastic way of personifying her own airy notions, that that spiritual Music had taken shape and life, and stood before her glorious in the image it assumed.  She was unconscious all the while of her own loveliness.  She had thrown aside her hood and veil; her hair, somewhat disordered, fell over the ivory neck which the dress partially displayed; and as her dark eyes swam with grateful tears, and her cheek flushed with its late excitement, the god of light and music himself never, amidst his Arcadian valleys, wooed, in his mortal guise, maiden or nymph more fair.

Zanoni gazed at her with a look in which admiration seemed not unmingled with compassion.  He muttered a few words to himself, and then addressed her aloud.

“Viola, I have saved you from a great peril; not from dishonour only, but perhaps from death.  The Prince di —­, under a weak despot and a venal administration, is a man above the law.  He is capable of every crime; but amongst his passions he has such prudence as belongs to ambition; if you were not to reconcile yourself to your shame, you would never enter the world again to tell your tale.  The ravisher has no heart for repentance, but he has a hand that can murder.  I have saved you, Viola.  Perhaps you would ask me wherefore?” Zanoni paused, and smiled mournfully, as he added, “You will not wrong me by the thought that he who has preserved is not less selfish than he who would have injured.  Orphan, I do not speak to you in the language of your wooers; enough that I know pity, and am not ungrateful for affection.  Why blush, why tremble at the word?  I read your heart while I speak, and I see not one thought that should give you shame.  I say not that you love me yet; happily, the fancy may be roused long before the heart is touched.  But it has been my fate to fascinate your eye, to influence your imagination.  It is to warn you against what could bring you but sorrow, as I warned you once to prepare for sorrow itself, that I am now your guest.  The Englishman, Glyndon, loves thee well,—­better, perhaps, than I can ever love; if not worthy of thee, yet, he has but to know thee more to deserve thee better.  He may wed thee, he may bear thee to his own free and happy land,—­the land of thy mother’s kin.  Forget me; teach thyself to return and deserve his love; and I tell thee that thou wilt be honoured and be happy.”

Viola listened with silent, inexpressible emotion, and burning blushes, to this strange address, and when he had concluded, she covered her face with her hands, and wept.  And yet, much as his words were calculated to humble or irritate, to produce indignation or excite shame, those were not the feelings with which her eyes streamed and her heart swelled.  The woman at that moment was lost in the child; and as a child, with all its exacting, craving, yet innocent desire to be loved, weeps in unrebuking sadness when its affection is thrown austerely back upon itself,—­so, without anger and without shame, wept Viola.