"Ungrateful woman," thought he, "to treat me thus! Does she not owe every thing to me? I could bear her coldness; I could resign her to a throne; but the idea of her loving another drives me to distraction!--Curses on that fiend! It must be by his infernal arts that Ferdinand has triumphed. The cold, the chaste Elvira could never give her love thus--thus almost unsolicited, and at first sight if it were not the work of magic. By Heaven, I would risk my soul for vengeance on that demon!" As he spoke, his eyes fell upon a thicket near him, and he fancied he saw the figure of a man, half obscured however by the mist, emerge from its gloomy recesses. He gazed intently, and the figure glided slowly on with cat-like, creeping steps. The mind of Edmund was worked up to frenzy--he almost fancied a demon had appeared obedient to his wish, to receive his pledge, and work his bidding. "Speak!" cried he, in a voice that sounded fearfully amidst the surrounding stillness--"Speak! art thou a demon, or a mortal?" All was silent: the figure glided on; and Lord Edmund, oppressed by supernatural terrors, and shuddering at the sound of his own voice, could bear no more; he darted upon the figure, and grasping it roughly, he exclaimed, "Man or devil, I fear thee not, and thus will I grapple with thee." "Gently, my son," replied the well-known voice of Father Morris; "in what have I offended you?" "Pardon, holy father," returned Edmund "I knew you not--I knew not what I did--my passion blinded me." "And what has caused this passion? The mind of Edmund is too noble to be lightly moved." "Oh! talk not of the nobleness of my mind, father; I feel I am but a poor weak worm. Nobleness belongs to God alone; 'tis blasphemy to apply the term to man." "Tell me your grievances. They must, I am sure, be great, or they would not thus affect you. It is my holy office to console affliction. Speak then, my son; for, remember, that though joy is doubled by being partaken, grief is lessened by being shared--and woe robbed of half its bitterness." "I have little to confess, father. I was weak and foolish; but Elvira--" "And are you astonished at a woman's fickleness? Light as the eider down, and unstable as the changing wind, inconstancy is natural to the sex--they crave incessantly for novelty;--and as vanity is their only real passion, if that be gratified they ask no more." "And has not Elvira's vanity been gratified even to satiety? Have I not idolized, worshipped her? Was it not my power that made her what she is? And is this my reward? To be scorned, deserted, laughed at, and for what? A stranger!--a boy!--my prisoner!" "Whom do you mean?" asked the friar. "Prince Ferdinand," returned Edmund. "Impossible!" cried Father Morris, starting with well-feigned astonishment. "Elvira cannot, surely, love Prince Ferdinand! And yet, now I recollect, I saw her talking to him, even now, with an appearance of deep interest, when I passed through her splendid chambers."