tears. "Once I loved to be the priestess of song and music; now I feel only that it is a miserable lot to be slave to a multitude."
"Fly, then, with me," said the artist, passionately; "quit for ever the calling that divides that heart I would have all my own. Share my fate now and for ever — my pride, my delight, my ideal! Thou shalt inspire my canvass and my song; thy beauty shall be made at once holy and renowned. In the galleries of princes, crowds shall gather round the effigy of a Venus or a Saint, and a whisper shall break forth, 'It is Viola Pisani!' Ah! Viola, I adore thee: tell me that I do not worship in vain."
"Thou art good and fair," said Viola, gazing on her lover, as he pressed nearer to her, and clasped her hand in his: "but what should I give thee in return?"
"Love — love — only love!"
"A sister's love?"
"Ah! speak not with such cruel coldness!"
"It is all I have for thee. Listen to me, Signor: when I look on your face, when I hear your voice, a certain serene and tranquil calm creeps over and lulls thoughts — oh I how feverish, how wild! When thou art gone, the day seems a shade more dark; but the shadow soon flies. I miss thee not; I think not of thee: no, I love thee not; and I will give myself only where I love."
"But I would teach thee to love me: fear it not. Nay, such love as thou describest, in our tranquil climates, is the love of innocence and youth."
