Earth holds but few to whom Nature has given the qualities that can bear the ordeal.

But time and excess, that have quickened his grosser senses, have blunted his imagination.

I relinquish him to his doom." "And still, then, Mejnour, you cherish the desire to revive our order, limited now to ourselves alone, by new converts and allies.
Surely--surely--thy experience might have taught thee, that scarcely once in a thousand years is born the being who can pass through the horrible gates that lead into the worlds without! Is not thy path already strewed with thy victims?
Do not their ghastly faces of agony and fear--the blood-stained suicide, the raving maniac--rise before thee, and warn what is yet left to thee of human sympathy from thy insane ambition ?" "Nay," answered Mejnour; "have I not had success to counterbalance failure?
And can I forego this lofty and august hope, worthy alone of our high condition,--the hope to form a mighty and numerous race with a force and power sufficient to permit them to acknowledge to mankind their majestic conquests and dominion, to become the true lords of this planet, invaders, perchance, of others, masters of the inimical and malignant tribes by which at this moment we are surrounded: a race that may proceed, in their deathless destinies, from stage to stage of celestial glory, and rank at last amongst the nearest ministrants and agents gathered round the Throne of Thrones?
What matter a thousand victims for one convert to our band?
And you, Zanoni," continued Mejnour, after a pause,--"you, even you, should this affection for a mortal beauty that you have dared, despite yourself, to cherish, be more than a passing fancy; should it, once admitted into your inmost nature, partake of its bright and enduring essence,--even you may brave all things to raise the beloved one into your equal.

Nay, interrupt me not.
Can you see sickness menace her; danger hover around; years creep on; the eyes grow dim; the beauty fade, while the heart, youthful still, clings and fastens round your own,--can you see this, and know it is yours to--" "Cease!" cried Zanoni, fiercely.

"What is all other fate as compared to the death of terror?
What, when the coldest sage, the most heated enthusiast, the hardiest warrior with his nerves of iron, have been found dead in their beds, with straining eyeballs and horrent hair, at the first step of the Dread Progress,--thinkest thou that this weak woman--from whose cheek a sound at the window, the screech of the night-owl, the sight of a drop of blood on a man's sword, would start the colour--could brave one glance of--Away! the very thought of such sights for her makes even myself a coward!" "When you told her you loved her,--when you clasped her to your breast, you renounced all power to foresee her future lot, or protect her from harm.