Zicci | Page 2

the material frame
and the supposed world without us?" asked the stranger. "For my part, I
think--"
"What do you think, sir?" asked Glyndon, curiously.
"I think," continued the stranger, "that it is the repugnance and horror
of that which is human about us to something indeed invisible, but
antipathetic to our own nature, and from a knowledge of which we are
happily secured by the imperfection of our senses."
"You are a believer in spirits, then?" asked Merton, with an incredulous
smile.
"Nay, I said not so. I can form no notion of a spirit, as the
metaphysicians do, and certainly have no fear of one; but there may be
forms of matter as invisible and impalpable to us as the animalculae to
which I have compared them. The monster that lives and dies in a drop
of water, carniverous, insatiable, subsisting on the creatures minuter
than himself, is not less deadly in his wrath, less ferocious in his nature,
than the tiger of the desert. There may be things around us malignant
and hostile to men, if Providence had not placed a wall between them
and us, merely by different modifications of matter."
"And could that wall never be removed?" asked young Glyndon,
abruptly. "Are the traditions of sorcerer and wizard, universal and
immemorial as they are, merely fables?"
"Perhaps yes; perhaps no," answered the stranger, indifferently. "But
who, in an age in which the reason has chosen its proper bounds, would
be mad enough to break the partition that divides him from the boa and
the lion, to repine at and rebel against the law of nature which confines
the shark to the great deep? Enough of these idle speculations."
Here the stranger rose, summoned the attendant, paid for his sherbet,
and, bowing slightly to the company, soon disappeared among the
trees.

"Who is that gentleman?" asked Glyndon, eagerly.
The rest looked at each other, without replying, for some moments.
"I never saw him before," said Merton, at last.
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"I have met him often," said the Neapolitan, who was named Count
Cetoxa; "it was, if you remember, as my companion that he joined you.
He has been some months at Naples; he is very rich,--indeed
enormously so. Our acquaintance commenced in a strange way."
"How was it?"
"I had been playing at a public gaming-house, and had lost
considerably. I rose from the table, resolved no longer to tempt Fortune,
when this gentleman, who had hitherto been a spectator, laying his
hand on my arm, said with politeness, 'Sir, I see you enjoy play,--I
dislike it; but I yet wish to have some interest in what is going on. Will
you play this sum for me? The risk is mine,--the half-profits yours.' I
was startled, as you may suppose, at such an address; but the stranger
had an air and tone with him it was impossible to resist. Besides, I was
burning to recover my losses, and should not have risen had I had any
money left about me. I told him I would accept his offer, provided we
shared the risk as well as profits. 'As you will,' said he, smiling, 'we
need have no scruple, for you will be sure to win.' I sat down, the
stranger stood behind me; my luck rose, I invariably won. In fact, I rose
from the table a rich man."
"There can be no foul play at the public tables, especially when foul
play would make against the bank."
"Certainly not," replied the count. "But our good fortune was indeed
marvellous,--so extraordinary that a Sicilian (the Sicilians are all
ill-bred, bad-tempered fellows) grew angry and insolent. 'Sir,' said he,

turning to my new friend, 'you have no business to stand so near to the
table. I do not understand this; you have not acted fairly.' The spectator
replied, with great composure, that he had done nothing against the
rules; that he was very sorry that one man could not win without
another man losing; and that he could not act unfairly even if disposed
to do so. The Sicilian took the stranger's mildness for
apprehension,--blustered more loudly, and at length fairly challenged
him. 'I never seek a quarrel, and I never shun a danger,' returned my
partner; and six or seven of us adjourned to the garden behind the house.
I was of course my partner's second. He took me aside. 'This man will
die,' said he; 'see that he is buried privately in the church of St. Januario,
by the side of his father.'
"'Did you know his family?' I asked with great surprise. He made no
answer, but drew his sword and walked deliberately to the spot we had
selected. The Sicilian was a renowned swordsman; nevertheless, in the
third pass he was run through