Day by day, the thought of leaving all for him appeared more necessary and certain.—She no longer shuddered at the mention of it. She heard him describe their future life—the countries they should visit; and it even pleased her to see that he was sincere in his intentions. No disguise was now required: he called not the fire that burnt in his heart by the name of friendship and of interest: “it is love,” he cried, “—most guilty—most unconquerable. Hear it, mark it, and yet remain without alarm. Ah! think not that to share it alone is required: your soul must exult, that it has renounced every hope beyond; and Glenarvon’s love must entirely fill your affections. Nay more, you shall sue for the sacrifice which is demanded of others. Yourself shall wish it; for I will never wrest from you that which, unless freely given, is little worth. Perhaps, even when you desire to be mine, I, even I shall spare you, till maddening with the fierce fires that devour us, you abandon all for me.” He now opened to her the dark recesses of his heart; deeds of guilt concealed from other eyes, he now dwelt upon to Calantha with horrid pleasure. “Shrink not, start not,” he exclaimed, when she trembled at each new confession. “Proud, even of my crimes, shalt thou become, poor victim of thy mad infatuation; this is the man for whom thou leavest Avondale! Mark me Calantha,—view me as I am, nor say hereafter that Glenarvon could deceive.” “And do you never feel remorse?” she said.—“Never.” “Do you believe?—” His countenance for one moment altered. “I know not,” he said, and he was grave. “Oh must I become as hard as wicked” she said, bursting into tears. He pressed her mournfully to his bosom. “Weep,” he replied, “I like to see your tears; they are the last tears of expiring virtue. Henceforward you will shed no more.” Those who have given way to the violence of any uncontrouled passion, know that during its influence all other considerations vanish. It is of little use to upbraid or admonish the victim who pursues his course: the fires that goad him on to his ruin, prevent his return. A kind word, an endearing smile, may excite one contrite tear; but he never pauses to reflect, or turns his eyes from the object of his pursuit. In vain the cold looks of an offended world, the heavy censures, and the pointed, bitter sarcasms of friends and dependants. Misfortunes, poverty, pain, even to the rack, are nothing if he obtain his view. It is a madness that falls upon the brain and heart. All is at stake for that one throw; and he who dares all, is desperate, and cannot fear. It was phrenzy, not love, that raged in Calantha’s bosom.