“Myself.”
Glyndon turned pale, and started from his seat.
“You, Signor Zicci, you,—and you dare to tell me so?”
“Dare! Alas! you know there is nothing on earth left me to fear!”
These words were not uttered arrogantly, but in a tone of the most mournful dejection. Glyndon was enraged, confounded, and yet awed. However, he had a brave English heart within his breast, and he recovered himself quickly.
“Signor,” said he, calmly, “I am not to be duped by these solemn phrases and these mystical sympathies. You may have power which I cannot comprehend or emulate, or you may be but a keen impostor.”
“Well, sir, your logical position is not ill-taken; proceed.”
“I mean then,” continued Glyndon, resolutely, though somewhat disconcerted, “I mean you to understand, that, though I am not to be persuaded or compelled by a stranger to marry Isabel di Pisani, I am not the less determined never tamely to yield her to another.”
Zicci looked gravely at the young man, whose sparkling eyes and heightened color testified the spirit to support his words, and replied: “So bold! well, it becomes you. You have courage, then; I thought it. Perhaps it may be put to a sharper test than you dream of. But take my advice: wait three days, and tell me then if you will marry this young person.”
“But if you love her, why, why—”