He quitted the gallery with reluctant steps and inspired ideas; he sought his own home.

Here, pleased not to find the sober Mervale, he leaned his face on his hands, and endeavoured to recall the words of Zanoni in their last meeting.

Yes, he felt Nicot's talk even on art was crime; it debased the imagination itself to mechanism.

Could he, who saw nothing in the soul but a combination of matter, prate of schools that should excel a Raphael?
Yes, art was magic; and as he owned the truth of the aphorism, he could comprehend that in magic there may be religion, for religion is an essential to art.

His old ambition, freeing itself from the frigid prudence with which Mervale sought to desecrate all images less substantial than the golden calf of the world, revived, and stirred, and kindled.