“By the wax-lights that burned in her apartment, Melmoth could see her prostrate before the sacred image. He could see that devotion of the heart which made it throb almost visibly in the white and palpitating bosom--the clasped hands that seemed imploring aid against that rebellious heart, whose beatings they vainly struggled to repress; and then, locked and upraised, asked forgiveness from heaven for their fruitless opposition. He could see the wild but profound devotion with which she clung to the crucifix,--and he shuddered to behold it. He never gazed on that symbol,--his eyes were immediately averted;--yet now he looked long and intently at her as she knelt before it. He seemed to suspend the diabolical instinct that governed his existence, and to view her for the pure pleasure of sight. Her prostrate figure,--her rich robes that floated round her like drapery round an inviolate shrine,--her locks of light streaming over her naked shoulders,--her small white hands locked in agony of prayer,--the purity of expression that seemed to identify the agent with the employment, and made one believe they saw not a suppliant, but the embodied spirit of supplication, and feel, that lips like those had never held communion with aught below heaven.--All this Melmoth beheld; and feeling that in this he could never participate, he turned away his head in stern and bitter agony,--and the moon-beam that met his burning eye saw no tear there. “Had he looked a moment longer, he might have beheld a change in the expression of Isidora too flattering to his pride, if not to his heart. He might have marked all that profound and perilous absorption of the soul, when it is determined to penetrate the mysteries of love or of religion, and chuse “whom it will serve”--that _pause_ on the brink of an abyss, in which all its energies, its passions, and its powers, are to be immersed--that pause, while the balance is trembling (and we tremble with it) between God and man. “In a few moments, Isidora arose from before the cross. There was more composure, more elevation in her air. There was also that air of decision which an unreserved appeal to the Searcher of hearts never fails to communicate even to the weakest of those he has made. “Melmoth, returning to his station beneath the casement, looked on her for some time with a mixture of compassion and wonder--feelings that he hasted to repel, as he eagerly demanded, “What proof are you ready to give of _that_ love I have described--of that which alone deserves the name?”--“Every proof,” answered Isidora firmly, “that the most devoted of the daughters of man can give--my heart and hand,--my resolution to be yours amid mystery and grief,--to follow you in exile and loneliness (if it must be) through the world!”