His tone was full of soul, for every word was truth; but she applied it wrongly to herself. He had withdrawn his hand, and passed it over his brow. As it fell listlessly on his knee, she laid hers upon it, and it trembled; it was the action of a moment, and as quickly withdrawn. "What have you proved?" she asked, almost imploringly. "That we must never trust our own false hearts--they lead us on to destruction; still less, any _living_ woman." His thoughts were with the dead, as he deemed. "Do not look so pale--so afflicted: look as you did on that night." "_That night_, which never knew a morrow! and yet it held the promise of one, Lady Dora." "Who cast that promise from his memory, as worthless?" "Not that, as dangerous, incapable of leading to happiness, as a snare--any thing you will, but a promise of that joy, which another has obtained." "I will not misunderstand you. There is one thing we may give in pique, the hand, but the heart defies our power--'tis our master." "Is yours?" "Yes; I have in vain struggled with it--it daunts me." "Mine is a slave," he answered, "chained, but not by me; and yours will become so too, and follow the manacled hand, and thus you will be calm and happy." "I? never. Do you know--do you not see, that my position terrifies me? I have none to counsel--be my guide, and as an error led me to the steps I have taken, direct me how to escape its penalty." "You mean your marriage with Lord Randolph?" he took her hand as he spoke, and, looking upon it, thought of the day he first held Minnie's thus! "'Tis a fair hand," he said, regarding it. "Oh! pity this should break hearts, sever ties of love--this little tiny thing, which holds so much fearful power. Are you sure you do not love Lord Randolph?" "Sure? I almost hate him, and should, were he my husband." "Are you mad? You must have been to pledge yourself to him, such as you are--one to be loved, worshipped, adored, if with this hand you gave your heart." "Thus I would have it--and only thus!" she uttered, her pride subdued in her feelings. He had urged her on by his manner; she had prepared herself against his prayers, but not against his ambiguous manner; for he looked as one fearful of speaking--of one on his guard. She fancied he durst not, and she dared all to prove him at last. For an instant he thought, "Shall I doom her to misery, such as she has not dreamed of, and, marrying her, tell her why I wooed her?" but a thought, even yet of pity, came over him; he knew the worse than death he could condemn her to, by making her his unloved, despised wife; then, too, Minnie stood between them, and forbade it. He felt he _never_ could place another, even in hate, or revenge, where her head alone, though but in memory might lie--on his heart. "Can you love? Do you love?" he asked, in a low whisper; and the arm stole round her waist. "Could you for that love renounce all--give up rank, station, home--all?"