The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. "Find out his name, Gionetta," said she, moving slowly to the stage, and passing by Glyndon, who gazed at her with a look of sorrowful reproach.
The scene on which the actress now entered was that of the final catastrophe, wherein all her remarkable powers of voice and art were pre-eminently called forth. The house hung on every word with breathless worship; but the eyes of Viola sought only those of one calm and unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. Zanoni listened, and observed her with an attentive gaze, but no approval escaped his lips; no emotion changed the expression of his cold and half-disdainful aspect. Viola, who was in the character of one who loved, but without return, never felt so acutely the part she played. Her tears were truthful; her passion that of nature; it was almost too terrible to behold. She was borne from the stage exhausted and insensible, amidst such a tempest of admiring rapture as Continental audiences alone can raise. The crowd stood up — handkerchiefs waved — garlands and flowers were thrown on the stage — men wiped their eyes, and women sobbed aloud.
"By heavens!" said a Neapolitan of great rank, "she has fired me beyond endurance. To-night — this very night — she shall be mine! You have arranged all, Mascari?"
"All, Signor. And the young Englishman?"
"The presuming barbarian! As I before told thee, let him bleed for his folly. I will have no rival."
