“Think not of _me_, I beseech you!” cried Charney; proving, by his generous transports, and forgetfulness of self, how truly he deserved the friendship of which he was the object. “At last, you will be restored to her arms! At last, she will cease to suffer from the consequence of my rashness! _You_ will be happy, and I no longer oppressed by the heaviness of remorse. During the last few hours that remain for us to be together, we may at least talk of her unreservedly.” And, as he uttered these last incoherent words, the Count de Charney threw himself into the arms of his venerable friend. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. The knowledge of their approaching separation seemed only to augment the tender affection existing between the two friends. Seldom an hour apart, both seemed eager to continue till the last moment their conferences on the bench of the little court. There was a solemn subject, to which Girardi often endeavoured to lead the way, but Charney invariably evaded the discussion. The old man was, however, too deeply interested in sounding the opinions of the Count to be easily discouraged, and one day an occasion unexpectedly presented itself for the accomplishment of his wishes. “How unaccountable the chance,” cried Charney, after a short silence, “which united us in this place; naturally divided as we are by difference of birth-place, of languages, of faith, of prejudices! Yet, in spite of all these obstacles, we have met at Fenestrella, to unite in the same religious principles, the same adoration of the one supreme Being.” “On that point, give me leave to differ with you,” said Girardi, with a smile. “To lose sight of, is not to deny. Our views have never been the same.” “Certainly not. But which of the two, the bigot or the sceptic, was most mistaken—which the most deserving pity?” “Yourself,” replied the old man, without hesitation—“yes, my dear young friend, yourself! All extremes are dangerous; but in superstition there is faith, passion, vitality; and in scepticism, universal night—universal death. Superstition is the pure stream diverted from its natural channel, which inundates, submerges, and displaces the vegetable soil, but conveys it elsewhere, and repairs, farther on its course, the injuries it has produced; while scepticism is drought, dearth, sterility; burning and scorching up, transmuting earth to sand, and rendering the mighty Palmyra a ruin of the desert. Not content with placing an eternal bar betwixt us and the Creator, incredulity relaxes the bonds of society and destroys the ties of kindred and affection. In depriving man of his importance as a being eternally responsible, it creates around him isolation and contempt. He is alone in the world—alone with his pride; or, as I said before, alone as a ruin in the desert.”