By the time I had ended, Isora seemed to have recovered herself. With her softness was mingled something of spirit and self-control, which was rare alike in her country and her sex. "Listen to me!" said she, and her voice, which faltered a little at first, grew calm and firm as she proceeded. "You profess to love me: I am not worthy your love; and if, Count Devereux, I do not reject nor disclaim it--for I am a woman, and a weak and fond one--I will not at least wrong you by encouraging hopes which I may not and I dare not fulfil. I cannot,--" here she spoke with a fearful distinctness,--"I cannot, I can never be yours; and when you ask me to be so, you know not what you ask nor what perils you incur. Enough; I am grateful to you. The poor exiled girl is grateful for your esteem--and--and your affection. She will never forget them,--never! But be this our last meeting--our very last--God bless you, Morton!" and, as she read my heart, pierced and agonized as it was, in my countenance, Isora bent over me, for I knelt beside her, and I felt her tears upon my cheek,--"God bless you--and farewell!" "You insult, you wound me," said I, bitterly, "by this cold and taunting kindness; tell me, tell me only, who it is that you love better than me." Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too proud to detain her; but when I said this, she came back, after a moment's pause, and laid her hand upon my arm. "If it make you happy to know /my/ unhappiness," she said, and the tone of her voice made me look full in her face, which was one deep blush, "know that I am not insensible--" I heard no more: my lips pressed themselves involuntarily to hers,--a long, long kiss,--burning, intense, concentrating emotion, heart, soul, all the rays of life's light into a single focus; and she tore herself away from me,--and I was alone. CHAPTER IX. A DISCOVERY AND A DEPARTURE. I HASTENED home after my eventful interview with Isora, and gave myself up to tumultuous and wild conjecture. Aubrey sought me the next morning: I narrated to him all that had occurred: he said little, but that little enraged me, for it was contrary to the dictates of my own wishes. The character of Morose in the "Silent Woman" is by no means an uncommon one. Many men--certainly many lovers--would say with equal truth, always provided they had equal candour, "All discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome." Certainly I felt that amiable sentiment most sincerely with regard to Aubrey. I left him abruptly: a resolution possessed me. "I will see," said I, "this Barnard; I will lie in wait for him; I will demand and obtain, though it be by force, the secret which evidently subsists between him and this exiled family."