“They were heretics, and knew not the communion of the true church,” said the Jesuit. “They taught thee wrongly, child; and I fear their souls are now suffering the pains of purgatory, but for thy sake I would gladly pray them out.” Amy’s eyes flashed indignantly. “That may be thy portion, deceiver; but those of whom you speak, killed by your murderous bands, are angels in heaven. I know it,” said she, with an assurance that silenced Mordaunt. “I saw them last night, they beckoned me upward. Oh, Father, have mercy!” and she lifted her eyes and hands heavenward, with an expression, as if her soul were quitting its earthly tabernacle. Mordaunt was awed. He sat silently gazing at her, and she into the azure above. Old Wiloma, who had been asleep in the wigwam, at this instant awoke, and calling Amy, brought her wandering senses back to earth. She rose and obeyed the bidding. Mordaunt departed, but the expression of that upturned face haunted him. There was a touching serenity about Amy, as she gazed into the land of spirits, that commanded his admiration. Duplicity had indeed made him its disciple, but it had not entirely blunted his perceptions of the beautiful; his coarse heart was not impervious to a scene like that. He sought another interview, but Amy avoided him more than ever after that conversation. Mordaunt often visited old Wiloma’s cabin, for she had learned the sign of the cross, but never could he gain an opportunity of speaking with her who now had his every thought. Cupid’s arrows were too deeply transfixed to be withdrawn, and the more he was foiled, the more necessary seemed the object he would gain. One day Amy was walking in the woods, when Mordaunt coming up hastily behind, surprised her with, “My dear mademoiselle.” She could not retreat, and had not time to reply, before his pent-up feelings found utterance in the best English he could command. He talked not of saints, or the “blessed Virgin.” He had been seeking this opportunity too long, another was too uncertain, and above all, he felt too deeply to allow of any delay. In a broken and tremulous manner he told her of his love; how his thoughts had dwelt upon her night and day, and swore to be faithful forever, would she but bless him with her affection. Amy’s countenance indicated no participation in the confusion manifested by Mordaunt. The color came and went upon his cheek, as hope or fear predominated—a fitful anxiety pervaded his whole frame. Nothing could have astonished Amy more than the declarations of Mordaunt. She had felt a decided aversion to him, without knowing why, or having the slightest suspicion of his real state of feeling. Her features were rigid, and bespoke no emotion, her voice calm, and her whole manner self-possessed. “I have given my heart to my own dear Richard, and though he lives no more, I will not, I wish not to recall it. Where he lies, there lie buried my earthly hopes and affections.”