Gottlieb drew the stranger along with him under the carved old oak-wood portals, and the rest paired, and reverentially entered in his wake. Margarita, to make up for this want of courtesy, formed herself the last of the procession. She may have had another motive, for she took occasion there to whisper something to Farina, bringing sun and cloud over his countenance in rapid flushes. He seemed to remonstrate in dumb show; but she, with an attitude of silence, signified her wish to seal the conversation, and he drooped again. On the door step she paused a moment, and hung her head pensively, as if moved by a reminiscence. The youth had hurried away some strides. Margarita looked after him. His arms were straightened to his flanks, his hands clenched, and straining out from the wrist. He had the aspect of one tugging against the restraint of a chain that suddenly let out link by link to his whole force. ‘Farina!’ she called; and wound him back with a run. ‘Farina! You do not think me ungrateful? I could not tell my father in the crowd what you did for me. He shall know. He will thank you. He does not understand you now, Farina. He will. Look not so sorrowful. So much I would say to you.’ So much was rushing on her mind, that her maidenly heart became unruly, and warned her to beware. The youth stood as if listening to a nightingale of the old woods, after the first sweet stress of her voice was in his ear. When she ceased, he gazed into her eyes. They were no longer deep and calm like forest lakes; the tender-glowing blue quivered, as with a spark of the young girl’s soul, in the beams of the moon then rising. ‘Oh, Margarita!’ said the youth, in tones that sank to sighs: ‘what am I to win your thanks, though it were my life for such a boon!’ He took her hand, and she did not withdraw it. Twice his lips dwelt upon those pure fingers. ‘Margarita: you forgive me: I have been so long without hope. I have kissed your hand, dearest of God’s angels!’ She gently restrained the full white hand in his pressure. ‘Margarita! I have thought never before death to have had this sacred bliss. I am guerdoned in advance for every grief coming before death.’ She dropped on him one look of a confiding softness that was to the youth like the opened gate of the innocent garden of her heart. ‘You pardon me, Margarita? I may call you my beloved? strive, wait, pray, hope, for you, my star of life?’ Her face was so sweet a charity! ‘Dear love! one word!--or say nothing, but remain, and move not. So beautiful you are! Oh, might I kneel to you here; dote on you; worship this white hand for ever.’ The colour had passed out of her cheeks like a blissful western red leaving rich paleness in the sky; and with her clear brows levelled at him, her bosom lifting more and more rapidly, she struggled against the charm that was on her, and at last released her hand. ‘I must go. I cannot stay. Pardon you? Who might not be proud of your love!--Farewell!’