ings unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Shakespeare.

Zanoni followed the young Neapolitan into her house; Gionetta
vanished,--they were left alone.

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,
a