he saw the face of a stranger: a face not stamped by the glorious beauty of Zanoni, but equally majestic in its aspect, and perhaps still more impressive from the mature age and the passionless depth of thought that characterised the expanded forehead, and deep-set but piercing eyes.
"You seek Zanoni," said the stranger, "he will be here anon; but, perhaps, he whom you see before you is more connected with your destiny, and more disposed to realise your dreams."
"Hath the earth, then, another Zanoni?"
"If not," replied the stranger, "why do you cherish the hope and the wild faith to be yourself a Zanoni?" Think you that none others have burned with the same godlike dream? Who, indeed, in his first youth — youth when the soul is nearer to the heaven from which it sprang, and its divine and primal longings are not all effaced by the sordid passions and petty cares that are begot in time — who is there in youth that has not nourished the belief that the universe has secrets not known to the common herd, and panted, as the hart for the water-springs, for the fountains that he hid and far away amidst the broad wilderness of trackless science? The music of the fountain is heard in the soul within, till the steps, deceived and erring, rove away from its waters, and the wanderer dies in the mighty desert. Think you that none who have cherished the hope have found the truth? or that the yearning after the Ineffable Knowledge was given to us utterly in vain? No! Every desire in human hearts
