Lifted to the higher realm of passionate love, it seemed as if the fictitious genius which represents the thoughts of others was merged in the genius that grows all thought itself.

It had been the worst infidelity to the Lost, to have descended again to live on the applause of others.

And so--for she would not accept alms from Glyndon--so, by the commonest arts, the humblest industry which the sex knows, alone and unseen, she who had slept on the breast of Zanoni found a shelter for their child.

As when, in the noble verse prefixed to this chapter, Armida herself has destroyed her enchanted palace,--not a vestige of that bower, raised of old by Poetry and Love, remained to say, "It had been!" And the child avenged the father; it bloomed, it thrived,--it waxed strong in the light of life.

But still it seemed haunted and preserved by some other being than her own.