He wrung Mervale’s hand as he spoke, darted from his side, and disappeared amidst the crowd.

By the corner of the Toledo he was arrested by Nicot.

“Ah, Glyndon!  I have not seen you this month.  Where have you hid yourself?  Have you been absorbed in your studies?”

“Yes.”

“I am about to leave Naples for Paris.  Will you accompany me?  Talent of all order is eagerly sought for there, and will be sure to rise.”

“I thank you; I have other schemes for the present.”

“So laconic!—­what ails you?  Do you grieve for the loss of the Pisani?  Take example by me.  I have already consoled myself with Bianca Sacchini,—­a handsome woman, enlightened, no prejudices.  A valuable creature I shall find her, no doubt.  But as for this Zanoni!”

“What of him?”

“If ever I paint an allegorical subject, I will take his likeness as Satan.  Ha, ha! a true painter’s revenge,—­eh?  And the way of the world, too!  When we can do nothing else against a man whom we hate, we can at least paint his effigies as the Devil’s.  Seriously, though:  I abhor that man.”

“Wherefore?’

“Wherefore!  Has he not carried off the wife and the dowry I had marked for myself!  Yet, after all,” added Nicot, musingly, “had he served instead of injured me, I should have hated him all the same.  His very form, and his very face, made me at once envy and detest him.  I felt that there is something antipathetic in our natures.  I feel, too, that we shall meet again, when Jean Nicot’s hate may be less impotent.  We, too, cher confrere,—­we, too, may meet again!  Vive la Republique!  I to my new world!”

“And I to mine.  Farewell!”

That day Mervale left Naples; the next morning Glyndon also quitted the City of Delight alone, and on horseback.  He bent his way into those picturesque but dangerous parts of the country which at that time were infested by banditti, and which few travellers dared to pass, even in broad daylight, without a strong escort.  A road more lonely cannot well be conceived than that on which the hoofs of his steed, striking upon the fragments of rock that encumbered the neglected way, woke a dull and melancholy echo.  Large tracts of waste land, varied by the rank and profuse foliage of the South, lay before him; occasionally a wild goat peeped down from some rocky crag, or the discordant cry of a bird of prey, startled in its sombre haunt, was heard above the hills.  These were the only signs of life; not a human being was met,—­not a hut was visible.  Wrapped in his own ardent and solemn thoughts, the young man continued his way, till the sun had spent its noonday heat, and a breeze that announced the approach of eve sprung up from the unseen ocean which lay far distant to his right.  It was then that a turn in the road brought before him one of those long, desolate, gloomy villages which are found in the interior of the Neapolitan dominions: