The heart, in matters concerning the affections, but especially in a matter of love, is a dangerous thing to trifle with, and should always be sounded with the nicest care. When our sympathies are astir, we are liable to contract impressions, under a sort of surprise, that will deceive our own selves, and, though they are only superficial influences, sway us with the force of passions. If we searched our hearts deeply, we would find, on a closer view, that those impressions are not created so much by external agents, as by innate feelings; and, further, that we understand their nature very imperfectly, and entirely mistake their tendency. What we conceive, for instance, to be love, may really be no more than an elevated sympathy, though our inclination to mistake it may give it the colouring and force of love, and the strength of passion. If, in the outset, indeed, we apply to it the tests which love should sustain--if we propose to it the sacrifices that love would offer, or the mortifications that love would brave--the delusion will vanish; but, in the ecstacy of the moment, this course rarely occurs to us, and we cling to the delusion till it appears real, and renders us as giddy as absolute intoxication. Hildebrand was a man of arms; but his heart, as has been said, was full of strong feelings, and lofty affections. He was no weakling, who would allow those affections and feelings to be his master; but, at the same time, he allowed them their due and legitimate influence. He thought of Inez, and, while he did think of her, the deep and ardent sympathies of his nature, which she had never touched before, insensibly associated with his thoughts, and made the thread that ran through them assume the appearance of love. What a miserable infatuation! When he first discovered that he loved Evaline, did the obstacles to a successful issue, though their name was Legion, give his heart the slightest concern? Was it not light, and springing, and buoyant as morning? And now, without giving a thought to Evaline, he found that he loved another; and his heart was heavy as death. No! it was not love! It was pity, sympathy, and an utter abandonment of his own self. It was the remorse of a noble spirit, which prostrated itself, and all that it valued in the world, at the feet of one whom it felt that it had wronged. Nearly an hour elapsed before Inez awoke. Then, looking up, her eyes met those of Hildebrand, who was watching over her. “How farest thou, sweet lady?” Hildebrand asked, in a tremulous tone. “I’faith, marvellous thirsty,” answered Inez. Hildebrand presented her with a draught, which, according to his directions, the silent pantler, who had now retired to rest, had laid ready on the table. “I burn still,” pursued Inez, “and my wound is like fire.” “We must look to it,” said Hildebrand.