They put up at an inn of very humble pretensions, and dined under an awning. Mervale was more than usually gay; he pressed the Lacrima upon his friend, and conversed gaily.
"Well, my dear friend, we have foiled Signor Zanoni in one of his predictions at least. You will have no faith in him hereafter."
"The ides are come, not gone."
"Tush! If he be the soothsayer, you are not the Cæsar. It is your vanity that makes you credulous. Thank Heaven, I do not think myself of such importance that the operations of nature should be changed in order to frighten me."
But why should the operations of nature be changed? There may be a deeper philosophy than we dream of — a philosophy that discovers the secrets of nature, but does not alter, by penetrating, its courses."
"Ah! you relapse into your heretical credulity; you seriously suppose Zanoni to be a prophet — a reader of the future; perhaps an associate of genii and spirits!"
Here the landlord, a little, fat, oily fellow, came up with a fresh bottle of Lacrima. He hoped their Excellencies were pleased. He was most touched — touched to the heart, that they liked the macaroni. Were their Excellencies going to Vesuvius? There was a slight eruption; they could not see it where they were, but it was pretty, and would be prettier still after sunset.
"A capital idea!" cried Mervale. "What say you, Glyndon?"
