“I cannot swear, Archer. I mean I _dare_ not swear, Archer, even to prove my innocence, and get back your love.” “And why, pray?” he asked, with a mocking smile. “Oh, Archer! my Lord and yours has commanded us to ‘_Swear not at all_.’ I dare not break that command.” “Tush, girl, you are clumsy. Do you presume to think I can be duped by that affectation of super-righteousness?” “Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven! what shall I do?” said Catherine, in despair. “Swear, and I will believe you,” he answered, mockingly. “Oh! _why_ will not my simple word do? Oh! do you think I would tell a falsehood even to save my life?” “Do I? Does not an astute diplomatist, like you, know that _I_ know a woman who can be false, treacherous, hypocritical;—who, so young, can plot so well, and succeed so entirely;—can also tell a falsehood to conceal her baseness?” he answered, looking down upon her in insufferable scorn. Then her whole manner changed. She arose to her feet with a certain calm and gentle dignity, and pushing back the veiling tresses from her noble brow, answered nobly— “Yes, it is true! If I could have conceived such treachery, and written such a letter as that, I could also have lied to conceal it! There is only one on earth that knows my innocence, the writer of that letter. But one in Heaven knows it, and He will make it manifest. I believe in miracles, because I believe in the infinite power and goodness of God, and in the everlasting promises of the Bible.” “Well done, Maria Teresa! really that is the best of all! Indeed, your talents are quite lost upon such unworthy game as me and my poor estate—good-bye!” And laughing bitterly, he left the room, and hurried down stairs. A few minutes after she heard the clock strike ten—then she arose and went to the window to look out. He stood upon the lawn, in riding gear, near a group consisting of his servant Dandy, and three saddle-horses. She saw him vault into his saddle, and ride away, attended by Dandy, mounted on one horse and leading another. As he passed the outer gate, one look of love, sorrow, and despair, he turned towards her window, and then vanished into the forest road. She did not see that look—she could not have seen it at that distance; she saw that he was gone, and turning from the window, she sank down upon the carpet in the collapse of deepest sorrow. Gone! He was gone! His presence that had made all suffering tolerable was withdrawn, and the place was empty—life itself was empty. He was gone—gone—not lovingly, after a lingering, tender leave-taking—that would have been sorrowful enough; but it would have been cheered by the promise of frequent interchange of letters, and the anticipation of re-union; how much more sorrowful this utter separation! Gone! gone! not in anger—that would have been bitter indeed; but it would have been sweetened by hope that anger would subside, that reflection would come, and reconciliation ensue; but how much bitterer this hopeless disunion.