“Viola,” said the Englishman, taking her hand, and drawing her again to the bench from which she had risen, as he seated himself beside her, “you shall hear me speak!  You must know already that I love thee!  It has not been pity or admiration alone that has led me ever and ever to thy dear side; reasons there may have been why I have not spoken, save by my eyes, before; but this day—­I know not how it is—­I feel a more sustained and settled courage to address thee, and learn the happiest or the worst.  I have rivals, I know,—­rivals who are more powerful than the poor artist; are they also more favoured?”

Viola blushed faintly; but her countenance was grave and distressed.  Looking down, and marking some hieroglyphical figures in the dust with the point of her slipper, she said, with some hesitation, and a vain attempt to be gay, “Signor, whoever wastes his thoughts on an actress must submit to have rivals.  It is our unhappy destiny not to be sacred even to ourselves.”

“But you do not love this destiny, glittering though it seem; your heart is not in the vocation which your gifts adorn.”

“Ah, no!” said the actress, her eyes filling with tears.  “Once I loved to be the priestess of song and music; now I feel only that it is a miserable lot to be slave to a multitude.”

“Fly, then, with me,” said the artist, passionately; “quit forever the calling that divides that heart I would have all my own.  Share my fate now and forever,—­my pride, my delight, my ideal!  Thou shalt inspire my canvas and my song; thy beauty shall be made at once holy and renowned.  In the galleries of princes, crowds shall gather round the effigy of a Venus or a Saint, and a whisper shall break forth, ‘It is Viola Pisani!’ Ah!  Viola, I adore thee; tell me that I do not worship in vain.”

“Thou art good and fair,” said Viola, gazing on her lover, as he pressed nearer to her, and clasped her hand in his; “but what should I give thee in return?”

“Love, love,—­only love!”

“A sister’s love?”

“Ah, speak not with such cruel coldness!”

“It is all I have for thee.  Listen to me, signor:  when I look on your face, when I hear your voice, a certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over and lulls thoughts,—­oh, how feverish, how wild!  When thou art gone, the day seems a shade more dark; but the shadow soon flies.  I miss thee not; I think not of thee:  no, I love thee not; and I will give myself only where I love.”

“But I would teach thee to love me; fear it not.  Nay, such love as thou describest, in our tranquil climates, is the love of innocence and youth.”

“Of innocence!” said Viola.  “Is it so?  Perhaps—­” She paused, and added, with an effort, “Foreigner! and wouldst thou wed the orphan?  Ah, thou at least art generous!  It is not the innocence thou wouldst destroy!”

Glyndon drew back, conscience-stricken.