“Ah! triumph over yourself and me,” she cried, clasping her hands in agony. “Ask any sacrifice but this. Do not make me contemptible to you and to myself.” “Calantha, the time for safety is past: it is too late now. I have linked my soul to yours; I love you in defiance of myself; I know it to be guilt, and to be death; but it must be. We follow but the dark destiny that involves us: we cannot escape from fate. For you alone I live:—be now but mine. They tell you of misery, of inconstancy, of lovers’ perjuries, from the olden time; but you shall prove them false. You leave much, it is true—rank, fame and friends, a home and the dearest ties of a mother’s heart—children; but have you not embittered all that you relinquish? Say that I yield you up and fly,—to what fate shall I then consign you? to what endless repining, unjoyous solitary hours—remorse, regret, the bitter taunt of friends, the insulting scorn of strangers, and, worse than all—O! worse than all the recoiling heart can endure, the unsuspicious confidence and caresses of an injured husband, of him you have already betrayed. O Calantha, turn from these to a lover’s bosom; seek for comfort here; and now, even now, accompany me in my flight ..................................” “I will leave all for you:—I love but you: be you my master.” Scarce had she uttered the impious oath which bound her to him, when her heart, convulsed with terror, ceased to beat. “Tis but in words—oh God! ’tis but in words, that thy guilty servant has offended. No—even in the delirium of passion, even in the transports of love, the fear of thy vengeance spake terrors into her soul, and ingratitude for all thy favours was not to be numbered with her sins.” But the oath which she had taken was terrible. She considered herself as no longer under the protection of her God. She trembled exceedingly; and fear for one moment overpowered her. Lord Glenarvon looked upon her, mournfully, as if sorry for the sin which he had cast upon her soul. “Now,” he said, “you will look back upon these moments, and you will consider me with abhorrence. I have led you with me to ruin and remorse.” “On me—on me, be the sin; let it fall upon me alone,” she replied; “but if, after this, you forsake me, then shall the vengeance of God be satisfied—the measure of my crime be at its full. It is not in my power—I cannot forsake you now: I will go with you, Glenarvon, if it were to certain death and ruin. I am yours alone. But this night I must return home,” she said. “I will not leave my father thus—I will not cause my aunt’s death.” “If you leave me now I shall lose you.” “O Glenarvon, let me return; and after seeing them once again, I will follow you firm until death.”