Page:The Coming Race, etc - 1888.djvu/328

314 tone of agony, as he hurried to the outer door. He opened it, only to be borne back by the press of armed men: behind—before—escape was cut off! The room literally swarmed with the followers of the ravisher, masked—mailed—armed to the teeth.

Isabel was already in the grasp of two of the myrmidons: her shriek smote the ear of Zicci. He sprang forward, and Isabel heard his wild cry in a foreign tongue!—the gleam, the clash of swords. She lost her senses; and when she recovered, she found herself gagged, and in a carriage that was driven rapidly, by the side of a masked and motionless figure. The carriage stopped at the portals of a gloomy mansion. The gates opened noiselessly:—abroad flight of steps, brilliantly illumined, was before her:—she was in the palace of the Prince di. CHAPTER XIV.

HE young actress was led to, and left alone in, a chamber adorned with all the luxurious and half-Eastern taste that, at one time, characterized the palaces of the great seigneurs of Italy. Her first thought was for Zicci: was he yet living—had he escaped unscathed the blades of the foe: her new treasure—the new light of her life—her lord, at last her lover.

She had short time for reflection. She heard steps approaching the chamber: she drew back. She placed her hand on the dagger that at all hours she wore concealed in her bosom. Living, or dead, she would be faithful still to Zicci! There was a new motive to the preservation of honour. The door opened, and the Prince entered in a dress that sparkled with jewels.

"Fair and cruel one," said he, advancing, with a half-sneer upon his lip, "thou'wilt not too harshly blame the violence of love." He attempted to take her hand as he spoke.

"Nay," said he, as she recoiled, "reflect that thou art now in the power of one that never faltered in the pursuit of an object less dear to him than thou art. Thy lover, presumptuous though he be, is not by to save thee. Mine thou art, but instead of thy master, suffer me to be thy slave."

"My lord," said Isabel, with a stern gravity which perhaps the Stage had conspired with Nature to bestow upon her, "your boast is in vain:—Your power! I am not in your power. Life and