Calantha could not answer. “You will write kindly and constantly to me,” at length she said. “May God destroy me in his vengeance,” cried Glenarvon eagerly, “if, though absent, I do not daily, nay, hourly think of thee, write to thee, live for thee! Fear not, thou loved one. There was a time when inconstancy had been a venial error—when insecure of thy affections, and yet innocent, to fly thee had been a duty, to save thee had been an angel’s act of mercy and of virtue;—but now when thou art mine; when, sacrificing the feelings of thy heart for others, thou dost leave me—can you believe that I would add to your grief and increase my own. Can you believe him you love so base as this? Oh! yes, Calantha, I have acted the part of such a villain to your lost friend, that even you mistrust me.” She re-assured him: “I have given my very soul to you, O! Glenarvon. I believe in you, as I once did in Heaven. I had rather doubt myself and every thing than you.” She now expressed an anxiety to return and see her aunt. “Yet, Calantha, it may perhaps be said that you have fled to me. The stain then is indelible. Think of it, my beloved; and think, if I myself conduct you back, how the malevolent, who are ever taunting you, will say that I wished not to retain you. They know me not; they guess not what I feel; and the world, ever apt to judge by circumstances imperfectly related, will imagine”.... “At such a moment,” said Calantha, impatiently, “it is of little importance what is thought. When the heart suffers keenly, not all the sayings of others are of weight. Let them think the worst, and utter what they think. When we fall, as I have done, we are far beyond their power: the venomed shaft of malice cannot wound; for the blow under which we sink is alone heeded. I feel now but this, that I am going to part from you.” Glenarvon looked at her, and the tears filled his eyes. “Thy love,” he said, “was the last light of Heaven, that beamed upon my weary pilgrimage: thy presence recalled me from error: thy soft voice stilled every furious passion. It is all past now—I care not what becomes of me.” As he spoke, they approached the boat, and entering it, sailed with a gentle breeze across the bay. Not a wave rippled over the sea—not a cloud obscured the brightness of the setting sun. “How tranquil and lovely is the evening!” said Glenarvon, as the bark floated upon the smooth surface. “It is very calm now,” she replied, as she observed the serenity of his countenance. “But, ah! who knows how soon the dreadful storms may arise, and tear us to destruction.”