It was a small cabinet; the walls were covered with pictures, one of which was worth more than the whole lineage of the owner of the palace. Is not Art a wonderful thing? A Venetian noble might be a fribble or an assassin, a scoundrel, or a dolt, worthless, or worse than worthless; yet he might have sat to Titian, and his portrait may be inestimable,—a few inches of painted canvas a thousand times more valuable than a man with his veins and muscles, brain, will, heart, and intellect!

In this cabinet sat a man of about three and forty,—dark-eyed, sallow, with short, prominent features, a massive conformation of jaw, and thick, sensual, but resolute lips; this man was the Prince di—. His form, middle-sized, but rather inclined to corpulence, was clothed in a loose dressing-robe of rich brocade; on a table before him lay his sword and hat, a mask, dice and dice-box, a portfolio, and an inkstand of silver curiously carved.

“Well, Mascari,” said the Prince, looking up towards his parasite, who stood by the embrasure of the deep-set barricaded window, “well, you cannot even guess who this insolent meddler was? A pretty person you to act the part of a Prince’s Ruffiano!”

“Am I to be blamed for dulness in not being able to conjecture who had the courage to thwart the projects of the Prince di—. As well blame me for not accounting for miracles.”

“I will tell thee who it was, most sapient Mascari.”

“Who, your Excellency?”

“Zicci.”

“Ah! he has the daring of the devil. But why does your Excellency feel so assured,—does he court the actress?”

“I know not; but there is a tone in that foreigner’s voice that I never can mistake,—so clear, and yet so hollow; when I hear it I almost fancy there is such a thing as conscience. However, we must rid ourselves of an impertinent. Mascari, Signor Zicci hath not yet honored our poor house with his presence. He is a distinguished stranger,—we must give a banquet in his honor.”

“Ah! and the cypress wine! The cypress is the proper emblem of the grave.”

“But this anon. I am superstitious; there are strange stories of his power and foresight,—remember the Sicilian quackery! But meanwhile the Pisani—”

“Your Excellency is infatuated. The actress has bewitched you.”

“Mascari,” said the Prince, with a haughty smile, “through these veins rolls the blood of the old Visconti,—of those who boasted that no woman ever escaped their lust, and no man their resentment. The crown of my fathers has shrunk into a gewgaw and a toy,—their ambition and their spirit are undecayed. My honor is now enlisted in this pursuit: Isabel must be mine.”

“Another ambuscade?” said Mascari, inquiringly.

“Nay, why not enter the house itself? The situation is lonely, and the door is not made of iron.”

Before Mascari could reply, the gentleman of the chamber announced the Signor Zicci.

The Prince involuntarily laid his hand on the sword placed on the table; then, with a smile at his own impulse, rose, and met the foreigner at the threshold with all the profuse and respectful courtesy of Italian simulation.

“This is an honor highly prized,” said the Prince; “I have long desired the friendship of one so distinguished—”

“And I have come to give you that friendship,” replied Zicci, in a sweet but chilling voice. “To no man yet in Naples have I extended this hand: permit it, Prince, to grasp your own.”

The Neapolitan bowed over the hand he pressed; but as he touched it, a shiver came over him, and his heart stood still.

Zicci bent on him his dark, smiling eyes, and then seated himself with a familiar air.

“Thus it is signed and sealed,—I mean our friendship, noble Prince. And now I will tell you the object of my visit. I find, your Excellency, that, unconsciously perhaps, we are rivals. Can we not accommodate our pretensions? A girl of no moment, an actress, bah! it is not worth a quarrel. Shall we throw for her? He who casts the lowest shall resign his claim?”

Mascari opened his small eyes to their widest extent; the Prince, no less surprised, but far too well world-read even to show what he felt, laughed aloud.

“And were you, then, the cavalier who spoiled my night’s chase and robbed me of my white doe? By Bacchus, it was prettily done.”

“You must forgive me, my Prince; I knew not who it was, or my respect would have silenced my gallantry.”

“All stratagems fair in love, as in war. Of course you profited by my defeat, and did not content yourself with leaving the little actress at her threshold?”

“She is Diana for me,” answered Zicci, lightly; “whoever wins the wreath will not find a flower faded.”

“And now you would cast for her,—well; but they tell me you are ever a sure player.”

“Let Signor Mascari cast for us.”

“Be it so. Mascari, the dice.”

Surprised and perplexed, the parasite took up the three dice, deposited them gravely in the box, and rattled them noisily, while Zicci threw himself back carelessly in his chair and said, “I give the first chance to your Excellency.”

Mascari interchanged a glance with his patron and threw the numbers were sixteen.

“It is a high throw,” said Zicci, calmly; “nevertheless, Signor Mascari, I do not despond.”

Mascari gathered up the dice, shook the box, and rolled the contents once more upon the table; the number was the highest that can be thrown,—eighteen.

The Prince darted a glance of fire at his minion, who stood with gaping mouth staring at the dice, and shaking his head in puzzled wonder.

“I have won, you see,” said Zicci: “may we be friends still?”

“Signor,” said the Prince, obviously struggling with angel and confusion, “the victory is already yours. But, pardon me, you have spoken lightly of this young girl,—will anything tempt you to yield your claim?”

“Ah, do not think so ill of my gallantry.”

“Enough,” said the Prince, forcing a smile, “I yield. Let me prove that I do not yield ungraciously: will you honor me with your presence at a little feast I propose to give on the royal birthday?”

“It is indeed a happiness to hear one command of yours which I can obey.”

Zicci then turned the conversation, talked lightly and gayly and soon afterwards departed.

“Villain,” then exclaimed the Prince, grasping Mascari by the collar, “you have betrayed me!”

“I assure your Excellency that the dice were properly arranged,—he should have thrown twelve; but he is the Devil, and that’s the end of it.”

“There is no time to be lost,” said the Prince, quitting hold of his parasite, who quietly resettled his cravat.

“My blood is up! I will win this girl, if I die for it. Who laughed? Mascari, didst thou laugh?”

“I, your Excellency,—I laugh?”

“It sounded behind me,” said the Prince, gazing round.