"Compose myself, Isabella--signora, I mean," he exclaimed: "_that_ is impossible! Oh! if you knew _all_, you would pity me! But I dare not now reveal to you what I wish. A word which this day dropped from your father's lips has banished all hope from my mind. Now I am wandering again! In the name of heaven, take no notice of what I say; I am mad--I am raving!" "And what was it that my father said to annoy you?" inquired Isabella timidly. "Oh! nothing--nothing purposely," answered Markham. "He himself was unaware that he fired the arrow from his bow." "Am I unworthy of your confidence in this instance?" asked Isabella; "and may I not be made acquainted with the nature of the annoyance which my father has thus unintentionally caused you to experience?" "Oh! why should I repeat words which would only lead to a revelation of what it is now useless to reveal. Your father and mother both delivered the same sentiment--a sentiment that destroys all hope. But, oh! you cannot understand the cause of my anxiety--my grief--my disappointment!" "And why not entrust me with that cause? I could sympathise with you as a friend." "As a friend! Alas, Isabella, is it useless for me now to deplore the visions which I had conjured up, and which have been so cruelly destroyed? You yourself know not what is in store for you--what plans your father may have formed concerning you!" "And are you acquainted with those plans?" asked the beauteous Italian, in a tone of voice rendered almost inaudible by a variety of emotions--for the heart of that innocent and charming being fluttered like a bird in the net of the fowler.