my passport; in another hour I shall be gone, and you,
boy that you are, will be left, without a friend, to the deceits of your
own fancy and the machinations of this relentless mountebank."

"Enough," said Glyndon, coldly; "you cease to be an effective counsellor
when you suffer your prejudices to be thus evident. I have already had
ample proof," added the Englishman, and his pale cheek grew more pale,
"of the power of this man,--if man he be, which I sometimes doubt,--and,
come life, come death, I will not shrink from the paths that allure me.
Farewell, Mervale; if we never meet again,--if you hear, amidst our old
and cheerful haunts, that Clarence Glyndon sleeps the last sleep by the
shores of Naples, or amidst yon distant hills, say to the friends of
our youth, 'He died worthily, as thousands of martyr-students have died
before him, in the pursuit of knowledge.'"

He wrung Mervale's hand as he spoke, darted from his side, and
disappeared amidst the crowd.

By the corner of the Toledo he was arrested by Nicot.

"Ah, Glyndon! I have not seen you this month. Where have you hid
yourself? Have you been absorbed in your studies?"

"Yes."

"I am about to leave Naples for Paris. Will you accompany me? Talent of
all order is eagerly sought for there, and will be sure to rise."

"I thank you; I have other schemes for the present."

"So laconic!--what ails you? Do you grieve for the loss of the
Pisani? Take example by me. I have already consoled myself with Bianca
Sacchini,--a handsome woman, enlightened, no prejudices. A valuable
creature I shall find her, no doubt. But as for this Zanoni!"

"What of him?"

"If ever I paint an allegorical subject, I will take his likeness as
Satan. Ha, ha! a true painter's revenge,--eh? And the way of the world,
too! When we can do nothing else against a man whom we hate, we can at
least paint his effigies as the Devil's. Seriously, though: I abhor that
man."

"Wherefore?'

"Wherefore! Has he not carried off the wife and the dowry I had marked
for myself! Yet, after all," added Nicot, musingly, "had he served
instead of injured me, I should have hated him all the same. His very
form, and his very face, made me at once envy and detest him. I felt
that there is something antipathetic in our natures. I feel, too, that
we shall meet again, when Jean Nicot's hate may be less impotent. We,
too, cher confrere,--we, too, may meet again! Vive la Republique! I to
my new world!"

"And