He pressed her hand to his heart, and knelt before her, without uttering a promise, indeed, but with a glance of love which left her all to hope. "Let us form no plan for years to come," she said: "the happiest hours of life are those benevolently granted us by chance: it is not here, in the midst of tombs, that we should trust much to the future."--"No," cried Nevil; "I believe in no future that can part us: four days of absence have but too well convinced me that I now exist but for you." Corinne made no reply, but religiously hoarded these precious words in her heart: she always feared, in prolonging a conversation on the only subject of her thoughts, lest Oswald should declare his intentions before a longer habit of being with her rendered separation impossible. She often designedly directed his attention to exterior objects, like the sultana in the Arabian tales, who sought by a thousand varied stories to captivate her beloved, and defer his decision of her fate, till certain that her wit must prove victorious. [1] Viximus insignes inter utramque facem. PROPERTIUS. CHAPTER II. Not far from the Appian Way is seen the Columbarium, where slaves are buried with their lords; where the same tomb contains all who dwelt beneath the protection of one master or mistress. The women devoted to the care of Livia's beauty, who contended with time for the preservation of her charms, are placed in small urns beside her. The noble and ignoble there repose in equal silence. At a little distance is the field wherein vestals, unfaithful to their vows were interred alive; a singular example of fanaticism in a religion naturally so tolerant. "I shall not take you to the catacombs," said Corinne, "though, by a strange chance, they lie beneath the Appian Way, tombs upon tombs! But that asylum of persecuted Christians is so gloomy and terrible, that I cannot resolve to revisit it. It has not the touching melancholy which one breathes in open wilds; it is a dungeon near a sepulchre--the tortures of existence beside the horrors of death. Doubtless one must admire men who, by the mere force of enthusiasm, could support that subterranean life--forever banished from the sun; but the soul is too ill at ease in such a scene to be benefited by it. Man is a part of creation, and finds his own moral harmony in that of the universe; in the habitual order of fate, violent exceptions may astonish, but they create too much terror to be of service. Let us rather seek the pyramid of Cestius, around which all Protestants who die here find charitable graves."--"Yes," returned Oswald, "many a countryman of mine is amongst them. Let us go there; in one sense at least, perhaps, I shall never leave you." Corinne's hand trembled on his arm. He continued, "Yet I am much better since I have known you." Her countenance resumed its wonted air of tender joy.