And thus the old _emigre_ concluded his speech, with a tear glistening in his eye--and an unexceptionable bow. Had he flung himself into my arms, the effect would have been complete. I hate to record scenes of this sort; but, as I have imposed the task upon myself; I will go through it; and, though the temptation is great, seeing what I was then, the disciple as well as the offspring of romance, and what I now am, worldly in the world's most sordid worldliness, to do my penance in self-mockery--for the sake of the young hearts still unseared, I will refrain. I was exceedingly affected and agitated at this appeal, the purport of which I could not misunderstand. My emotions, at first, prevented me from speaking. I arose from the sofa, Josephine still hanging upon my shoulder, and taking her father's hand, led them both to the window. The sun was near the horizon; and mountain, sea, and green valley, and dark forest, were steeped in a roseate glory. About three miles distant, and beneath us, my gallant frigate sat in the bosom of the gently rippling waters, like a sultana upon her embroidered divan, her ensign and her pennant streaming out fair and free to the evening breeze. I pointed to her, and with a voice scarcely articulate--for, at that period, the sob would rise too readily to my throat, and the tear start too freely to my eye--I exclaimed: "Behold my home--my country claims the duty of a son!" "Monsieur knows best," said Manuel, almost coldly. "His countrymen have conquered us: you are a gallant race, undoubtedly; but one of them has not shown much mercy to my daughter." The passionate girl was at my feet--yes, kneeling at my feet, and her supplicating hands were clasped in that attitude of humility that is due only to God. Who taught her the infinite pathos of that beautiful posture? Taught her! She had no teacher, save Nature and Love. "Josephine," said I, lifting her gently up, and kissing her fair brow, "you are breaking my heart. I cannot stand this--I must rush out of the house. I have never said I loved you;"--(mean subterfuge!) "But you do, you do--it is my fate,--it is yours--for three years I have been expecting you--disbelieve me not--ask the Obeah woman. It is true," and then, hurrying out the words like the downpouring of the mountain torrent, she continued, "Do you love me?--do you love me?--do you love me?" "I do, Josephine--I do distractedly! But stern honour stands in the way." "And what is this honour?" she exclaimed, with genuine simplicity; for it was evident that, if she had ever heard the word before, she had not the remotest idea of its meaning: "_Et quelle est cette honneur-la_?" and there was contempt in her tone. I had no words to reply.