Ah! Zicci, rather let me die." She had thrown back her clustering hair from her face as she spoke; and as she now stood, with her arms drooping mournfully, and her hands clasped together with the proud bitterness of her wayward spirit, giving new zest and charm to her singular beauty, it was impossible to conceive a sight more irresistible to the senses and the heart.
"Tempt me not to thine own danger, perhaps destruction," exclaimed Zicci, in faltering accents; "thou canst not dream of what thou wouldest demand.

Come," and, advancing, he wound his arm round her waist, "come, Isabel! Believe at least in my friendship, my protection--" "And not thy love," said the Italian, turning on him her hurried and reproachful eyes.

Those eyes met his, and he could not withdraw from the charm of their gaze.

He felt her heart throbbing beneath his own; her breath came warm upon his cheek.

He trembled,--he, the lofty, the mysterious Zicci,--who seemed to stand aloof from his race.