"Isabel, my beautiful—speak to me!"
"Hush!" said Isabel, trembling, "I beseech you do not speak now."
"Why not, Isabel! There can be no place so holy that a love like mine may not be pleaded there. It is the religion of my soul!"
"I cannot—oh, I cannot listen to this," murmured the young girl, striving feebly to extricate her hand from his clasp; "do not, I entreat you, do not speak to me in this way again!"
Her voice faltered, and she leaned against the altar for support, but he would not be repulsed. He felt that her resolution was giving way—that the love of her young heart was growing powerful in his behalf, and drawing her from the altar supported her with his arm.
"Isabel, be true to yourself, be just to me! Why shrink from a happiness so great? Speak to me, beloved—speak to me!"
Isabel felt her resolution wavering; her strength gave way, she yielded to the pressure of his arm, and for one moment was drawn to his heart.
Down in the distant chapel the music still swelled, and with it came the voices of the choir, "Father, oh, our Father!"
The solemn Latin in which those words were uttered fell upon her like winged arrows; she started forward and stood for an instant immovable, horrified by the tenderness to which she had yielded.
"Oh, my father, my father, forgive me!" she exclaimed, passionately.