“Oh, then,” cried Virginia, trusting words so softly and plausibly spoken, “if you are indeed impelled by a motive so generous and disinterested, it is still in your power to save him. Your influence with the Governor is known, and one word from your lips might control the fate of a brave man, and restore happiness and peace to a broken-hearted girl. Oh! would not this amply compensate even for the neglect of duty? Would it not be far nobler to secure the happiness of two grateful hearts, than to shed the blood of a brave and generous man, and to wade through that red stream to success and fame? Believe me, Mr. Bernard, when you come to die, the recollection of such an act will be sweeter to your soul than all the honour and glory which an admiring posterity could heap above your cold, insensate ashes. If I am any thing to you; if my happiness would be an object of interest to your heart; and if my love, my life-long love, would be worthy of your acceptance, they are yours. Forgive the boldness, the freedom with which I have spoken. It may be unbecoming in a young girl, but let it be another proof of the depth, the sincerity of my feelings, when I can forget a maiden's delicacy in the earnestness of my plea.” It was impossible not to be moved with the earnest and touching manner of the weeping girl, as with clasped hands and streaming eyes, she almost knelt to Bernard in the fervent earnestness of her feelings. Machiavellian as he was, and accustomed to disguise his heart, the young man was for a moment almost dissuaded from his design. Taking Virginia gently by the hand, he begged her to be calm. But the feeling of generosity which for a moment gleamed on his heart, like a brief sunbeam on a stormy day, gave way to the wonted selfishness with which that heart was clouded. “And can you still cling with such tenacity to a man who has proven himself so unworthy of you,” he said; “to one who has long since sacrificed you to his own fanatical purposes. Even should he escape the fate which awaits him, he can never be yours. Your own independence of feeling, your father's prejudices, every thing conspires to prevent a union so unnatural. Hansford may live, but he can never live to be your husband.” “Who empowered you to prohibit thus boldly the bans between us, and to dissolve our plighted troth?” said Virginia, with indignation. “You again mistake me,” replied Bernard. “God forbid that I should thus intrude upon what surely concerns me not. I only expressed, my dear friend, what you know full well, that whatever be the fate of Major Hansford, you can never marry him. Why, then, this strange interest in his fate?”