We must go back to the preceding night. The actress and her nurse had
returned from the theatre; and Isabel, fatigued and exhausted, had
thrown herself on a sofa, while Gionetta busied herself with the long
tresses which, released from the fillet that bound them, half concealed
the form of the actress, like a veil of threads of gold; and while she
smoothed the luxuriant locks, the old nurse ran gossiping on about the
little events of the night,--the scandal and politics of the scenes and
the tire-room.
The clock sounded the hour of midnight, and still Isabel detained the
nurse; for a vague and foreboding fear, she could not account for, made
her seek to protract the time of solitude and rest.
At length Gionetta’s voice was swallowed up in successive yawns. She
took her lamp and departed to her own room, which was placed in the
upper story of the house. Isabel was alone. The half-hour after midnight
sounded dull and distant, all was still, and she was about to enter her
sleeping-room, when she heard the hoofs of a horse at full speed. The
sound ceased; there was a knock at the door. Her heart beat violently;
but fear gave way to another sentiment when she heard a voice, too well
known, calling on her name. She went to the door.
“Open, Isabel,--it is Zicci,” said the voice again.
And why did the actress feel fear no more, and why did that virgin hand
unbar the door to admit, without a scruple or, a doubt, at that late
hour, the visit of the fairest cavalier of Naples? I know not; but Zicci
had become her destiny, and she obeyed the voice of her preserver as if
it were the command of Fate.
Zicci entered with a light and hasty step. His horseman’s cloak fitted
tightly to his noble form, and the raven plumes of his broad hat threw a
gloomy shade over his commanding features.
The girl followed him into the room, trembling and blushing deeply, and
stood before him with the lamp she held shining upward on her cheek, and
the long hair that fell like a shower of light over the bare shoulders
and heaving bust.
“Isabel,” said Zicci, in a voice that spoke deep emotion, “I am by thy
side once more to save thee. Not a moment is to be lost. Thou must fly
with me, or remain the victim of the Prince di--. I would have made the
charge I now undertake another’s,--thou knowest I would, thou knowest
it; but he is not worthy of thee, the cold Englishman! I throw myself at
thy feet; have trust in me, and fly.”
He grasped her hand passionately as he dropped on his knee, and looked
up into her face with his bright, beseeching eyes.
“Fly with thee!” said Isabel, tenderly.
“Thou knowest the penalty,--name, fame, honor, all will be sacrificed if
thou dost not.”
“Then, then,” said the wild girl, falteringly, and turning aside her
face, “then I am not indifferent to thee. Thou wouldest not give me to
another; thou lovest me?”
Zicci was silent; but his breast heaved, his cheeks flushed, his eyes
darted dark but impassioned fire.
“Speak!” exclaimed Isabel, in jealous suspicion of his silence. “Speak,
if thou lovest me.”
“I dare not tell thee so; I will not yet say I love thee.”
“Then what matter my fate?” said Isabel, turning pale and shrinking from
his side. “Leave me; I fear no danger. My life, and therefore my honor,
is in mine own hands.”
“Be not so mad!” said Zicci. “Hark! do you hear the neigh of my steed?
It is an alarm that warns us of the approaching peril. Haste, or you are
lost.”
“Why do you care for me?” said the girl, bitterly. “Thou hast read my
heart; thou knowest that I would fly with thee to the end of the world,
if I were but sure of thy love; that all sacrifice of womanhood’s repute
were sweet to me, if regarded as the proof and seal of affection. But
to be bound beneath the weight of a cold obligation; to be the beggar on
the eyes of Indifference; to throw myself on one who loves me not,--that
were indeed the vilest sin of my sex. Ah! Zicci, rather let me die.”
She had thrown back her clustering hair from her face as she spoke;
and as she now stood, with her arms drooping mournfully, and her hands
clasped together with the proud bitterness of her wayward spirit, giving
new zest and charm to her singular beauty, it was impossible to conceive
a sight more irresistible to the senses and the heart.
“Tempt me not to thine own danger, perhaps destruction,” exclaimed
Zicci, in faltering accents; “thou canst not dream of what thou wouldest
demand. Come,” and, advancing, he wound his arm round her waist, “come,
Isabel! Believe at least in my friendship, my protection--”
“And not thy love,” said the Italian, turning on him her hurried and
reproachful eyes. Those eyes met his, and he could not withdraw from the
charm of their gaze. He felt her heart throbbing beneath his own;
her breath came warm upon his cheek. He trembled,--he, the lofty, the
mysterious Zicci,--who seemed to stand aloof from his race. With a deep
and burning sigh he murmured, “Isabel, I love thee!” That beautiful
face, bathed in blushes, drooped upon his bosom; and as he bent down,
his lips sought the rosy mouth,--a long and burning kiss. Danger, life,
the world were forgotten! Suddenly Zicci tore himself from her.
“Oh! what have I said? It is gone,--my power to preserve thee, to guard
thee, to foresee the storm in thy skies, is gone forever. No matter!
Haste, haste; and may love supply the loss of prophecy and power!”
Isabel hesitated no more. She threw her mantle over her shoulders and
gathered up her dishevelled hair; a moment, and she was prepared,--when
a sudden crash was heard in the inner room.
“Too late!--fool that I was--too late!” cried Zicci, in a sharp tone of
agony as he hurried to the outer door. He opened it, only to be borne
back by the press of armed men.
Behind, before, escape was cut off. The room literally swarmed with the
followers of the ravisher, masked, mailed, armed to the teeth.
Isabel was already in the grasp of two of the myrmidons; her shriek
smote the ear of Zicci. He sprang forward, and Isabel heard his wild
cry in a foreign tongue,--the gleam, the clash of swords. She lost
her senses; and when she recovered, she found herself gagged, and in a
carriage that was driven rapidly, by the side of a masked and motionless
figure. The carriage stopped at the portals of a gloomy mansion.
The gates opened noiselessly, a broad flight of steps, brilliantly
illumined, was before her,--she was in the palace of the Prince di--.