“Sweet! do I not say that I am content to forfeit all honors, triumphs, applauses--all that was so dear to me before--and only in the fond faith that I had conquered? You are mine--you tell me so with your dear lips--I have you in my fond embrace--ah! do not talk to me again of fame.” “I were untrue to you as to myself, dear Alfred, did I not. No! with your talents, to forego their uses--to deliver yourself up to love wholly, were as criminal as it would be unwise.” “You shall be my inspiration then, dear Margaret. These lips shall send me to the forum--these eyes shall reward me with smiles when I return. Your applause shall be to me a dearer triumph than all the clamors of the populace.” “Let us return home--it is late.” “Not so!--and why should we go? What is sleep to us but loss? What the dull hours, spent after the ordinary fashion, among ordinary people. Could any scene be more beautiful than this--ah! can any feeling be more sweet? Is it not so to you, dearest? tell me--nay, do not tell me--if you love as I do, you can not leave me--not now--not thus--while such is the beauty of earth and heaven--while such are the rich joys clustering in our hearts. Nay, while, in that hallowing moonlight, I gaze upon thy dark eyes, and streaming hair, thy fair, beautiful cheeks, and those dear rosy lips!” “Oh! Alfred, do not speak so--do not clasp me thus. Let us go. It is late--very late, and what will they say?” “Let them say! Are we not blessed? Can all their words take from us these blessings--these sacred, sweet, moments--such joys, such delights? Let them dream of such, with their dull souls if they can. No! no! Margaret--we are one! and thus one, our world is as free from their control as it is superior to their dreams and hopes. Here is our heaven, Margaret--ah! how long shall it be ours! at what moment may we lose it, by death, by storm, by what various mischance! What profligacy to fly before the time! No! no! but a little while longer--but a little while!” And there they lingered! He, fond, artful, persuasive; she, trembling with the dangerous sweetness of wild, unbidden emotions. Ah! why did she not go? Why was the strength withheld which would have carried out her safer purpose? The moon rose until she hung in the zenith, seeming to linger there in a sad, sweet watch, like themselves--the rivulet ran along, still prattling through the groves; the breeze, which had been a soft murmur among the trees at the first rising of the moon, now blew a shrill whistle among the craggy hills; but they no longer heard the prattle of the rivulet--even the louder strains of the breeze were unnoticed, and it was only when they were about to depart, that poor Margaret discovered that the moon had all the while been looking down upon them. CHAPTER XXVII. THE BIRTH OF THE AGONY.