The actress drew Gionetta nearer to the stage, and pointed out to her a
man in one of the nearer boxes, conspicuous amongst all else by the
simplicity of his dress and the extraordinary beauty of his features.

"Not worth a thought, Gionetta," repeated Isabel,--"not worth a thought!
Saw you ever one so noble, so godlike?"

"By the Holy Mother!" answered Gionetta, "he is a proper man, and has
the air of a prince."

The prompter summoned the Signora Pisani. "Find out his name,
Gionetta," said she, sweeping on 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 Isabel sought only those of one calm
and unmoved spectator; she exerted herself as if inspired. The stranger
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. Isabel, who was in the character of a jealous
and abandoned mistress, 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.