Again did Montague press the fair hand of that enchanting woman to his lips; and then, as he leant over her, their eyes met, and they exchanged glances of love--hers pure and chaste, his ardent and brimful of desire. He was maddened--he was emboldened by those innocent tokens of affection upon her part; and, throwing his arms around her, he imprinted hot and burning kisses upon her lips. With difficulty did she disengage herself from his embrace; and she cast upon him a look of reproach mingled with melancholy. "Pardon me, dearest one," he exclaimed, seizing her hand once more and pressing it to his lips; "is it a crime to love you so tenderly--so well?" "No, George--no: you are my saviour--you soon will be my husband--you need not ask for my forgiveness. But now leave me--retire to your own room as noiselessly as you can; and to-morrow--to-morrow," she added with a blush, "it is not necessary that Louisa should know that you were _here_." "I understand you, dearest," returned Montague; "your wishes shall ever be my commands. Good night, beloved one!" "Good night, dear George," said the lady;--and in another moment she was again alone in the boudoir. Montague returned to his apartment, full of the bliss which he had derived from the caresses enjoyed in a chamber that seemed sacred to mystery and love. He paced his own room with hasty and agitated steps: his brain was on fire. His own loose ideas of morality induced him to put but little faith in the reality of female virtue. He moreover persuaded himself that the principles of rectitude--supposing that they had ever existed--in the bosom of the enchanting creature he had just left, had been undermined or destroyed by the cheat which she was practising with regard to her sex. And, lastly, he fancied that her affections were too firmly rivetted on him to refuse him anything. Miserable wretch! he was blinded by his own mad desires. He knew not that woman's virtue is as real, as pure, and as precious as the diamond; he remembered not that the object of his licentious passion was innocent of aught criminal in the disguise which she had assumed;--he reflected not that the caresses which she had ere now permitted him to snatch, were those which the most spotless virgin may honourably award to her lover. He paced his room in a frenzied manner--allowing his imagination to picture scenes and enjoyments of the most voluptuous kind. By degrees his passion became ungovernable: he was no longer the cool, calculating man he hitherto had been;--a new chord appeared to have been touched in his heart. At that moment he would have signed a bond, yielding up all hopes of eternal salvation to the Evil One, for a single hour of love in the arms of that woman whom he had left in the boudoir! His passion had become a delirium:--he would have plunged into the crater of Vesuvius, or thrown himself from the ridge of the Alpine mountain into the boiling torrent beneath, had she gone before him.