"True philosophy," exclaimed the Prince. "'Not to admire' was the
Roman's maxim; never to mourn is mine. There is nothing in life to
grieve for,--save, indeed, Signor Zicci, when some beauty on whom we
have set our heart slips from our grasp. In such a moment we have need
of all our wisdom not to succumb to despair and shake hands with death.
What say you, signor? You smile. Such never could be your lot. Pledge
me in a sentiment: 'Long life; to the fortunate lover; a quick release
to the baffled suitor!'"

"I pledge you," said Zicci. And as the fatal wine was poured into his
glass, he repeated, fixing his eyes on the Prince, "I pledge you even in
this wine!"

He lifted the glass to his lips. The Prince seemed ghastly pale, while
the gaze of the Corsican bent upon him with an intent and stern
brightness that the conscience-stricken host cowered and quailed
beneath. Not till he had drained the draught and replaced the glass
upon the board did Zicci turn his eyes from the Prince; and he then
said, "Your wine has been kept too long,--it has lost its virtues. It
might disagree with many; but do not fear, it will not harm me, Prince.
Signor Mascari, you are a judge of the grape, will you favor us with
your opinion?"

"Nay," answered Mascari, with well-affected composure, "I like not the
wines of Cyprus, they are heating. Perhaps Signor Glyndon may not have
the same distaste. The English are said to love their potations warm
and pungent."

"Do you wish my friend also to taste the wine, Prince?" said Zicci.