The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched it, a shiver came over him, and his heart stood still.
Zicci bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with a familiar air.
"Thus it is signed and sealed,—I mean our friendship, noble Prince. And now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find, your Excellency, that, unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate our pretensions? A girl of no moment, an actress, bah! it is not worth a quarrel. Shall we throw for her? He who casts the lowest shall resign his claim?"
Mascari opened his small eyes to their widest extent; the Prince, no less surprised, but far too well world-read even to show what he felt, laughed aloud.
"And were you, then, the cavalier who spoiled my night's chase and robbed me of my white doe? By Bacchus, it was prettily done."
"You must forgive me, my Prince; I knew not who it was, or my respect would have silenced my gallantry."
"All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Of course you profited by my defeat, and did not content yourself with leaving the little actress at her threshold?"
"She is Diana for me," answered Zicci, lightly; "whoever wins the wreath will not find a flower faded."
"And now you would cast for her,—well; but they tell me you are ever a sure player."
"Let Signor Mascari cast for us."