Isora slowly recovered; her eyes in opening dwelt upon mine; her blood rushed at once to her cheek, and as suddenly left it hueless as before. She rose from my embrace, but I still extended my arms towards her; and words over which I had no control, and of which now I have no remembrance, rushed from my lips. Still pale, and leaning against the side of the arbour, Isora heard me, as--confused, incoherent, impetuous, but still intelligible to her--my released heart poured itself forth. And when I had ceased, she turned her face towards me, and my blood seemed at once frozen in its channel. Anguish, deep ineffable anguish, was depicted upon every feature; and when she strove at last to speak, her lips quivered so violently that, after a vain effort, she ceased abruptly. I again approached; I seized her hand, which I covered with my kisses. “Will you not answer me, Isora?” said I, trembling. “_Be_ silent, then; but give me one look, one glance of hope, of pardon, from those dear eyes, and I ask no more.” Isora’s whole frame seemed sinking beneath her emotions; she raised her head, and looked hurriedly and fearfully round; my eye followed hers, and I then saw upon the damp ground the recent print of a man’s footstep, not my own: and close to the spot where I had found Isora lay a man’s glove. A pang shot through me; I felt my eyes flash fire, and my brow darken, as I turned to Isora and said, “I see it; I see all: I have a rival, who has but just left you; you love me not; your affections are for him!” Isora sobbed violently, but made no reply. “You love him,” said I, but in a milder and more mournful tone, “you love him; it is enough; I will persecute you no more; and yet--” I paused a moment, for the remembrance of many a sign, which my heart had interpreted flatteringly, flashed upon me, and my voice faltered. “Well, I have no right to murmur--only, Isora--only tell me with your lips that you love another, and I will depart in peace.” Very slowly Isora turned her eyes to me, and even through her tears they dwelt upon me with a tender and a soft reproach. “You love another?” said I; and from her lips, which scarcely parted, came a single word which thrilled to my heart like fire,--“No!” “No!” I repeated, “no? say that again, and again; yet who then is this that has dared so to agitate and overpower you? Who is he whom you have met, and whom, even now while I speak, you tremble to hear me recur to? Answer me one word: is it this mysterious stranger whom your father honours with his friendship? is it Barnard?” Alarm and fear again wholly engrossed the expression of Isora’s countenance. “Barnard!” she said; “yes--yes--it is Barnard!” “Who is he?” I cried vehemently; “who or what is he; and of what nature is his influence upon you? Confide in me,” and I poured forth a long tide of inquiry and solicitation.