"What have you proved?" she asked, almost imploringly.
"That we must never trust our own false hearts—they lead us on to destruction; still less, any living woman." His thoughts were with the dead, as he deemed.
"Do not look so pale—so afflicted: look as you did on that night."
"That night, which never knew a morrow! and yet it held the promise of one, Lady Dora."
"Who cast that promise from his memory, as worthless?"
"Not that, as dangerous, incapable of leading to happiness, as a snare—any thing you will, but a promise of that joy, which another has obtained."
"I will not misunderstand you. There is one thing we may give in pique, the hand, but the heart defies our power—'tis our master."
"Is yours?"
"Yes; I have in vain struggled with it—it daunts me."
"Mine is a slave," he answered, "chained, but not by me; and yours will become so too, and follow the manacled hand, and thus you will be calm and happy."