But sleep! I charge thee, visit not these eyes, Nor raise thy dark pavilion here, 'Till morrow from the cave of ocean arise, And whisper tuneful joy in nature's ear. But mutely let me lie, and sateless gaze At all the soul that in his visage sits, While spirits of harmonious air-- Here her voice sunk, and the line terminated in a sigh. Her museful ardours were chilled by the looks of Ormond. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he appeared scarcely to attend to this strain. His sternness was proof against her accustomed fascinations. At length she pathetically complained of his coldness, and insinuated her suspicions that his affection was transferred to another object. He started from her embrace, and after two or three turns across the room, he stood before her. His large eyes were steadfastly fixed upon her face. "Aye," said he, "thou hast guessed right. The love, poor as it was, that I had for thee, is gone: henceforth thou art desolate indeed. Would to God thou wert wise. Thy woes are but beginning; I fear they will terminate fatally; if so, the catastrophe cannot come too quickly. "I disdain to appeal to thy justice, Helena, to remind thee of conditions solemnly and explicitly assumed. Shall thy blood be upon thy own head? No. I will bear it myself. Though the load would crush a mountain, I will bear it. "I cannot help it; I make not myself; I am moulded by circumstances; whether I shall love thee or not is no longer in my own choice. Marriage if indeed still in my power. I may give thee any name, and share with thee my fortune. Will these content thee? Thou canst not partake of my love. Thou canst have no part in my tenderness. These, are reserved for another more worthy than thou. "But no. Thy state is to the last degree forlorn, even marriage is denied thee. Thou wast contented to take me without it,--to dispense with the name of wife; but the being who has displaced thy image in thy heart is of a different class. She will be to me a wife, or nothing; and I must be her husband, or perish. "Do not deceive thyself, Helena. I know what it is in which thou hast placed thy felicity. Life is worth retaining by thee but on one condition. I know the incurableness of thy infirmity; but be not deceived. Thy happiness is ravished from thee. The condition on which thou consentedst to live is annulled. I love thee no longer. "No truth was ever more delicious; none was ever more detestable. I fight against conviction, and I cling to it. That I love thee no longer is at once a subject of joy, and of mourning. I struggle to believe thee superior to this shock; that thou wilt be happy, though deserted by me. Whatever be thy destiny, my reason will not allow me to be miserable on that account. Yet I would give the world--I would forfeit every claim but that which I hope upon the heart of Constantia--to be sure that thy tranquillity will survive this stroke.