"I spoke of only one insurmountable," replied the Count, "and I believed that to be insurmountable, Clémence, for I was even then aware of the decree, which did not appear till afterwards, but which forbade the marriage of Catholics and Protestants." "And was that the only insurmountable one?" she demanded. "Was that the only insurmountable barrier to our union?--What, if I had previously loved another?" "And is it so, then?" demanded the Count, with somewhat of sadness in his tone. "And have you before loved another?" "No, no!" exclaimed Clémence eagerly, and placing the hand which she had withdrawn in his again; "No, no! The woman was coming over me once more, but I will conquer the woman. No, I never did love another. Even if I had fancied it, I should now know, Albert, by what I feel at this moment, how idle such a fancy had been. But I never did fancy it. I never did believe it, even in the least degree; and now that I have said all that I can say, whatever may happen, never doubt me, Albert. Whatever you see, never entertain a suspicion. I have never loved another, and I can say nothing more." "Yes, yes! Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, "you can say more, Clémence. Say that you love me." She bent down her head, and Albert of Morseiul drew her gently to his bosom. "Say it! Say it, dear Clémence!" he said. Clémence hesitated, but at length she murmured something that no other ear but his could have heard, had it been ever so close. But he heard, and heard aright, that her reply was, "But too well!" The Count sealed the words upon her lips with his, and Clémence de Marly hid her eyes upon his shoulder, for they were full of tears. "And now," she added, raising them after a moment with one of her own sparkling smiles, "and now, having said those awful words, of course I am henceforth a slave. But this is no scene for jest, Albert. Desolation and destruction is round us on every side, I fear." "It matters not," replied the Count, "if thy faith is the same as mine is----" "It is, it is!" cried Clémence. "It may have wavered, Albert; but, thanks to yon good creature who has just left us, the light has never been wholly extinguished in my mind. My mother was a Protestant, and in that faith she brought me up. She then, knowing that I must fall into other hands, left Maria with me, with charges to me never to let her quit me. I was but a child then," she continued, "and they forced me to abjure. But their triumph lasted not an hour, for though I dared not show my feelings, I always felt that the path on which they would lead me was wrong, and strove, whenever I could, to return to a better way. To-day I came here at all risks, but I fear very much, Albert, I fear that destruction, and oppression, and grief, surround us on every side."