bright eyes dim. What
say you?" and he attempted to seize her hand.

Viola shrunk from him, and silently turned to depart. He rose abruptly
and placed himself on her path.

"Actress, you must hear me! Do you know what this calling of the stage
is in the eyes of prejudice,--that is, of the common opinion of mankind?
It is to be a princess before the lamps, and a Pariah before the day.
No man believes in your virtue, no man credits your vows; you are the
puppet that they consent to trick out with tinsel for their amusement,
not an idol for their worship. Are you so enamoured of this career
that you scorn even to think of security and honour? Perhaps you are
different from what you seem. Perhaps you laugh at the prejudice that
would degrade you, and would wisely turn it to advantage. Speak frankly
to me; I have no prejudice either. Sweet one, I am sure we should agree.
Now, this Prince di --, I have a message from him. Shall I deliver it?"

Never had Viola felt as she felt then, never had she so thoroughly seen
all the perils of her forelorn condition and her fearful renown. Nicot
continued:--

"Zanoni would but amuse himself with thy vanity; Glyndon would despise
himself, if he offered thee his name, and thee, if thou wouldst accept
it; but the Prince di -- is in earnest, and he is wealthy. Listen!"

And Nicot approached his lips to her, and hissed a sentence which she
did not suffer him to complete. She darted from him with one glance of
unutterable disdain. As he strove to regain his hold of her arm, he
lost his footing, and fell down the sides of the rock till, bruised and
lacerated, a pine-branch saved him from the yawning abyss below. She
heard his exclamation of rage and pain as she bounded down the path,
and, without once turning to look behind, regained her home. By the
porch stood Glyndon, conversing with Gionetta. She passed him
abruptly, entered the house, and, sinking on the floor, wept loud and
passionately.

Glyndon, who had followed her in surprise, vainly sought to soothe and
calm her. She would not reply to his questions; she did not seem to
listen to his protestations of love, till suddenly, as Nicot's terrible
picture of the world's judgment of that profession which to her younger
thoughts had seemed the service of Song and the Beautiful, forced itself
upon her, she raised her face from her hands, and, looking steadily upon
the Englishman, said, "False one, dost thou talk of me of love?"

"By m