Corinne yielded to the charm of such a night with heartfelt joy. Oswald could not conceal his emotion. Often he pressed her hand to his heart, then withdrew, returned, retired again, in respect for her who ought to be the companion of his life. She thought not of her danger: such was her esteem for him, that, had he demanded the gift of her entire being, she would not have doubted that such prayer was but a solemn vow to make her his wife; she was glad, however, that he triumphed over himself, and honored her by the sacrifice: her soul was so replete with love and happiness, that she could not form another wish. Oswald was far from this calm: fired by her beauty, he once embraced her knees with violence, and seemed to have lost all empire over his passion; but Corinne looked on him with so sweet a fear, as if confessing his power, in entreating him not to abuse it, that this humble defence extorted more reverence than any other could have done. They saw reflected in the wave a torch which some unknown hand bore along the beach, to a rendezvous at a neighboring house. "He goes to his love," said Oswald; "and for me the happiness of this day will soon be over." Corinne's eyes, then raised to heaven, were filled with tears. Oswald, fearing he had offended her, fell at her feet, begging her to pardon the love which hurried him away. She gave him her hand, proposing their return together. "Oswald," she said, "you will, I am assured, respect her you love; you know that the simplest request of yours would be resistless: it is you, then, who must answer for me; you, who would refuse me for your wife, if you had rendered me unworthy to be so."--"Well," said Oswald, "since you know the cruel potency of your will over my heart, whence, whence this sadness?"--"Alas!" she replied, "I had told myself that my last moments passed with you were the happiest of my life; and, as I looked gratefully to heaven, I know not by what chance a childish superstition came back upon my mind. The moon was hid by a cloud of fatal aspect. I have always found the sky either paternal or angry; and I tell you, Oswald, that to-night it condemns our love."--"Dearest," cried he, "the only auguries are good or evil actions; and have I not this evening immolated my most ardent desires to virtue?"--"It is well," added Corinne: "if you are not involved in this presage, it may be that the stormy heaven menaces but myself." [1] There is an exquisite account of the Lake Albano, in a collection of poems by Madame Brunn (formerly Munter), one of the most talented and imaginative women of her country. CHAPTER II.