He had been induced to speculate; he lost his all; he settled at Naples, and taught languages and music.

His wife died when Isabel, christened from her mother, was ten years old.

At sixteen she came out on the stage; two years afterwards her father departed this life, and Isabel was an orphan.
Glyndon, a man of pleasure and a regular attendant at the theatre, had remarked the young actress behind the scenes; he fell in love with her, and he told her so.

The girl listened to him, perhaps from vanity, perhaps from ambition, perhaps from coquetry; she listened, and allowed but few stolen interviews, in which she permitted no favor to the Englishman it was one reason why he loved her so much.
The day following that on which our story opens, Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the Cavern of Pausilippo.

It was past noon; the sun had lost its early fervor, and a cool breeze sprang voluptuously from the sparkling sea.
Bending over a fragment of stone near the roadside, he perceived the form of a man; and when he approached he recognized Zicci.
The Englishman saluted him courteously.