and again, he alone of the whole theatre withholds from me his applause. He scarcely seems to notice me; his indifference mortifies me to the soul;— I could weep for rage and sorrow."
"Which is he, my darling?" said the old woman with fondness in her voice. "He must be dull—not worth thy thoughts."
The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a man in one of the nearer boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the simplicity of his dress, and the extraordinary beauty of his features.
"Not worth a thought, Gionetta!"—repeated Isabel "not worth a thought! Saw you ever one so noble, so godlike?"
"By the Holy Mother!" answered Gionetta, "he is a proper man, and has the air of a prince."
The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. "Find out his name, Gionetta," said she, sweeping on to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.
The scene on which the actress now entered was that of the final catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable powers of voice and art were pre-eminently called forth. The house hung on every word with breathless worship; but the eyes of Isabel sought only those of one calm and unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. The stranger listened, and observed her with an attentive gaze, but no approval escaped his lips; no emotion changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful aspect. Isabel, who was in the character of a jealous and abandoned mistress, never felt so acutely the part she played. Her tears were truthful;—her passion that of nature: it was almost too terrible to behold. She was borne from the stage exhausted and insensible, amidst such a tempest of admiring rapture, as Continental audiences alone can raise. The crowd stood up—handkerchiefs waved—garlands and flowers were thrown on the stage—men wiped their eyes, and women sobbed aloud.
"By heavens!" said a Neapolitan of great rank, "she has fired me beyond endurance. Tonight, this very night, she shall be mine! You have arranged all, Mascari?"
"All, signor. And if this young Englishman should accompany her home?"
"The presuming barbarian! At all events, let him bleed for his folly. I hear that she admits him to secret interviews. I will have no rival."
"But an Englishman! There is always a search after the bodies of the English."
"Fool! is not the sea deep enough, or the earth secret enough, to hide one dead man? Our ruffians are silent as the grave itself:—
