“Katharine, by the sweet sacredness of my deep and constant love for you, ask me not that which I could never do with honour. Beneath the cope of heaven there walks no being whose wish is such a law to me as thine. My services are pledged--my colours chosen. My heart is in the cause. If thou couldst give to me thy precious self in marriage, as the mighty price of my desertion, I were unworthy of thee--we should be unworthy of each other. Our fall would be beyond the common lapse of false mankind. Even in our wedding garments our love would die.” “Lord of my constant heart, forget my words:--I know not what they meant--I know not how I spake them. Sorrow, and fear, and love, and dark forebodings, do half bewilder me. I would not have thee other than thou art in any thing. Thy heart is no traitor’s heart. Delusion, bright as is the garment of an archangel, goes before thee; and in Heaven’s chosen squadrons you shall be one day marshalled. Whene’er thou fallest in the battle, I shall know it:--the stars will tell it me: Francis, thou wilt be taken away from me,--I know it:--a presage dark and cold overshadows me.” “Nay, love, that fear is idle; ’tis a passing weakness. Nor time, nor space, nor life, nor death, can e’er divide our loves. In all I think, in all I do, you are present with me. Spirits are not confined:--in lonely forest haunts, across the wide Atlantic, I have had thee with me, Katharine, _visibly with me_; and I do know by the mysterious sympathy between us, that thou hast seen me sit with thee, beneath thy favourite cedar, when ocean rolled between us. This is the high and glorious privilege of love like ours. Come to my heart:--be folded there in one such fond embrace as may live in memory’s cup to be a daily nectar.” He pressed her majestic form to his manly breast, and bowed his head upon her shoulder. Just then a trumpet sounded from the city. He strained her yet closer to his heart, then cast his eyes around with eager glance, and made signal with his hand till Jane observed him and came up:--to her he passed his pale and silent charge with soft and reverent action, and, with the quick farewell of soldiers’ partings, broke suddenly away. CHAP. IX. He calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge with haughty arms this hateful name in us. _Henry IV._