at I asked you."

"Surely," was the answer. "My art, that promises to tell thee of the
future, would be a sorry fraud could it not declare the present--could
it not say who thou art, as well as what thou seekest."

"Ha! and thou knowest!" exclaimed the other, his hand suddenly feeling
within the folds of his cloak, as he spoke, as if for a weapon, while
his eye glared quickly around the apartment, as if seeking for a
secret enemy.

"Nay, fear nothing," said the woman calmly. "I care not to know who
thou art. It is not an object of my quest, otherwise it would not long
remain a secret to me."

"It is well! mine is a name that must not be spoken among the homes of
Venice. It would make thee thyself to quail couldst thou hear it
spoken."

"Perhaps! but mine is not the heart to quail at many things, unless it
be the absolute wrath of Heaven. What the violence or the hate of man
could do to this feeble frame, short of death, it has already
suffered. Thou knowest but little of human cruelty, young man, though
thy own deeds be cruel!"

"How knowest thou that my deeds are cruel?" was the quick and
passionate demand, while the form of the stranger suddenly and
threateningly advanced. The woman was unmoved.

"Saidst thou not that there was a name that might not be spoken in the
homes of Venice? Why should thy very name make the hearts of Venice to
quail unless for thy deeds of cruelty and crime? But I see further. I
see it in thine eyes that thou art cruel. I hear it in thy voice that
thou art criminal. I know, even now, that thy soul is bent on deeds of
violence and blood, and the very quest that brings thee to me now is
less the quest of love than of that wild and selfish passion which so
frequently puts on his habit."

"Ha! speak to me of that! This damsel, Francesca Ziani! 'Tis of her
that I would have thee speak. Thou saidst that she should be mine, yet
lo! her name is written in the "Book of Gold," and she is allotted to
this man of wealth, this Ulric Barberigo."

"She will never be the wife of Ulric Barberigo."

"Thou saidst she should be mine."

"Nay; I said not that."

"Ha!--but thou liest!"

"No! Anger me not, young man! I am slower, much slower to anger than
thyself--slower than most of those who still chafe within this mortal
covering--yet am I mortal like thyself, and not wholly free from such
foolish passions as vex mortality. Chafe me, and I will repulse thee
with scorn. Annoy me, and I close upon