The palace of Zicci was among the noblest in Naples. It still stands,
though ruined and dismantled, in one of those antique streets from which
the old races of the Norman and the Spaniard have long since vanished.

He ascended the vast staircase, and entered the rooms reserved for his
private hours. They were no wise remarkable except for their luxury and
splendor, and the absence of what men so learned as Zicci was reputed,
generally prize, namely, books. Zicci seemed to know everything that
books can teach; yet of books themselves he spoke and thought with the
most profound contempt.

He threw himself on a sofa, and dismissed his attendants for the night;
and here it may be observed that Zicci had no one servant who knew
anything of his origin, birth, or history. Some of his attendants he
had brought with him from other cities; the rest he had engaged at
Naples. He hired those only whom wealth can make subservient. His
expenditure was most lavish, his generosity, regal; but his orders were
ever given as those of a general to his army. The least disobedience,
the least hesitation, and the offender was at once dismissed. He was a
man who sought tools, and never made confidants.

Zicci remained for a considerable time motionless and thoughtful. The
hand of the clock before him pointed to the first hour of morning. The
solemn voice of the timepiece aroused him from his revery.

"One sand more out of the mighty hour-glass," said he, rising; "one hour
nearer to the last! I am weary of humanity. I will enter into one of
the countless worlds around me." He lifted the arras that clothed the
walls, and touching a strong iron door (then made visible) with a minute
key which he wore in a ring, passed into an inner apartment lighted by a