A thousand circumstances blended the thought of marrying Oswald with fear; and, as her nature was the present's slave, too heedless of the future, the day which was to load her with such care, rose like the purest, calmest of her life. On receiving his note, how were her feelings changed! She deemed him in great danger, and instantly, on foot, crossed the then crowded Corso, entering his abode before all the eyes of Rome. She had not given herself time to think, but walked so rapidly, that when she reached his chamber she could neither speak nor breathe. He comprehended all she had risked for his sake, and overrated the consequences of an act which in England would have ruined a woman's fame, especially if unwed: transported by generosity and gratitude, he raised himself, weak as he was, pressed her to his heart, and murmured, "Dear love! leave thee? now that thou hast compromised thyself?--no, no!--let my reparation----" She read his thought, and gently withdrawing from his arms, first ascertained that he was better than she had expected, then said gravely: "You mistake, my Lord! in coming to you I have done no more than the greatest number of women in Rome would have done in my place. Here, you know none but me. I heard you were ill; it is my duty to nurse you. Ceremony should be obeyed, indeed, when it sacrifices but one's self, yet ought to yield before the higher feelings due to the grief or danger of a friend. What would be the lot of a woman, if the same laws which permitted her to love forbade her to indulge the resistless impulse of flying to the aid of those most dear to her? I repeat, my Lord, fear nothing for me! My age and talents give me the freedoms of a married female. I do not conceal from my friends that I am here. I know not if they blame me for loving you, but surely, as I do, they cannot blame my devotion to you now." This sincere and natural reply filled Oswald's heart with most contrasted emotions: touched as he was by its delicacy, he was half disappointed. He would have found a pretext in her peril--a necessity for terminating his own doubts. He mused with displeasure on Italian liberty, which prolonged them thus, by permitting him so much favor, without imposing any bonds in return. He wished that honor had commanded him to follow inclination. These troublous thoughts caused him a severe relapse. Corinne, though suffering the most intense anxiety, lavished the fondest cares on his revival. Towards evening he was still more oppressed; she knelt beside his couch, supporting his head upon her bosom, though far more pitiable than himself. Oft as he gazed on her, did a look of rapture break through all his pangs. "Corinne," he whispered, "here are some papers--you shall read to me--written by my father on Death. Think not," he added, as he marked her dismay, "that I believe myself dying; but whenever I am ill I reperuse these consolations, and seem again to hear them from his lips;