“I say, beloved, that in an hour from this, I shall with your permission, lead you to the altar; and that whatever you may in the meanwhile reveal—since it is not that you have ceased to love me—shall not change my purpose.” “What, what, have I not misunderstood you, my lord? You did not mean to tell me——?” “I meant to tell you what I now repeat,—that nothing you have to reveal shall change our present relations. Come, dear Stella! if any secret sorrow oppresses your heart, lay it trustingly on mine. Confide in one, who in another hour will be your husband.” “Dear Father in Heaven! dost Thou hear him?—dost Thou hear this man whom I have so long deceived, and whom I would have so bitterly wronged. Montressor!” she said in a voice of thrilling tenderness,—“does not the grief, and terror, and humiliation, written on my brow, _warn_ you that some deep sin is to be confessed?—something that may, or must change our present relations, and make it incumbent on you to go below and announce to our friends—‘this woman is totally lost, and our marriage is at an end.’ You are warned. Will you still promise blindly?” “Not blindly, dearest Stella! That something in your past life has gone very wrong,—that you have hitherto shrunk from confiding in me, I do begin to see; but that your sense of honor now obliges you, despite your terrors, and in the face of all consequences, to make the revelation, I also see! Stella, I have known and loved you, only you, for seven years! I am not a man to be mistaken in any woman; much less in you, whom I have known and loved thus long! I love you! esteem you! trust in you! Do you likewise confide in me! Lay your secret sorrow on your promised husband’s faithful heart, beloved, for he is able to shelter and sustain you,” he said, and went and closed the blinds of the bay-window, to shut out the glaring sun and the merry laughter, and then returned and sat down, and held out his arms to receive her, saying— “Come, love! come drop your weary head upon my bosom, and whisper what you have to say.” “No, no, Lord Montressor; at your feet, rather, should your poor Stella tell her story,” she murmured, sinking down before him, and dropping her face upon her hands; but he caught and raised her to his heart, and held her there. “Come now, dearest Stella, speak!” “Alas, alas, my lord, you think me a young girl whom you clasp to your bosom. I am not! What, you do not put me thence?” He gathered her closer, and bent his head down protectingly over her. “Lord Montressor, do you hear me? Do you hear me say that I am no young girl whom you gather to your bosom?” “A widow, then, my Stella,” he said, changing color, but modulating his voice so that no slightest inflection should wound her stricken heart. “Yes, a widow! Oh, noble _Sans peur_! And you do not reproach me?” “I do not. Come, now, tell me the whole story, love.”