‘Oh, no, my agitation has shaken my senses,’ cried I deliriously, and clasping my temples; ‘he could not—no, no, Mansville! in the name of all that you have professed, and I have believed, in the name of those vows that are registered on high, however man may slight them; and in that holiest name of all, the name of Him, whose bolt hangs o’er the hypocrite, dispel these doubts and this suspense; restore me at once to my parents, or at once name the hour for that ceremony to pass, when, before the world, you acknowledge me as your wife!’ ‘Clara,’ replied the earl, ‘since you will force me to be explicit, is it not strange that a mind so intelligent should fancy for a moment that it was possible for one in my rank to marry a girl in yours?’ ‘The oath!—the oath!’ I cried, almost choking with emotion. ‘My heart is ever yours,’ returned he, ‘but, of my hand, I have no power to dispose. Nay, you pass not hence.’ ‘Are there no pangs, that, like the dagger, kill the heart they pierce,’ ejaculated I; ‘I cast me at your feet in agony! ’Tis Clara kneels and supplicates! not for herself, but for the racked souls, and the gray hairs of age! For your honor and eternal peace, restore me to my parents.’ The earl seemed suffering the most acute mental agony, and for a moment averted his head. ‘Clara,’ he said, in faltering accents, ‘believe my heart unchanged—my unceasing love—’ ‘Monster!’ I interrupted in delirious tones; ‘darest thou still profane that sacred word? No, my lord, the mask is torn away,—the attachment which was my pride is now my disgust; ’tis past! I know myself deceived, but, thank Heaven, I am not lost! To you, my lord, the bitter hour is not yet arrived; but, ’tis an hour that never fails to guilt. At some unexpected moment, the blandishment of pleasure will lose their force—the power of enjoyment will be palsied in your soul; it will awake only to remorse. In that hour of retribution think of these words of warning,—think of the hearts you’ve broken—think, my lord, and tremble.’ Without waiting to give utterance to another syllable, I rushed from the room, but the voice of the earl, tempted me to stop at the door and listen. He was apparently pacing the apartment in the most violent state of agitation, and thus soliloquizing:— ‘The fatal truth curdles my blood like poison! I feel the hell in my bosom. Oh, what a heart I’ve lost? Why, splendid slavery of rank, must virtue be thy victim; why must affection be sacrificed to thee? The peasant mates him where his heart directs, and to his lowly bride brings happiness; his lord must fret, chained to some high-born fool; or either pine in vain for humble loveliness, or make its innocence a martyr to his choice. I was not born to be a betrayer. Wed! I cannot cease to love!’