Evaline, whom his altered manner had already greatly disturbed, heard these words with a thrill of despair.
“Then, I will bid thee farewell, Sir,” she replied, in an agitated voice.
“Hold!” exclaimed Bernard. “He hath charged me close—close—by my love for his mother. And, faith, thou art a most fair lady, even in the guise thou wearest now. I would thou wast aught but a Papist!”
“The blessed Virgin keep my faith whole!” ejaculated Evaline.
“Couldst thou hold it through the fire?” asked Bernard, earnestly.
“With God’s help, Sir,” answered Evaline.
“I fell short!” cried Bernard, in a tone of anguish. “They had me up; they fixed me to the stake; the fagots, steaming with pitch, were set about me; and, before a spark was kindled, my faith gave way! Like Peter, I denied my creed; I swore I knew not the man; and they let me go! Oh, that the trial might come again! Oh, that I might meet the fire, with its thousand torments, only once more!”
His voice sank into a murmur of supplication as he thus spoke, and his agitation, though it was still excessive, was of a kind more calculated to excite compassion. Evaline, as he ceased speaking, could not repress an exclamation of sympathy.
“Dost pity me?” said Bernard. “If thou knew’st how I have mourned it, thou wouldst think me reclaimed. Summer and winter, every night, do I come to that grave barefoot, and pray God’s pardon. Not the last fire that shall ever blaze, I heartily believe, could make me again deny my sweet Saviour.”
“God keep thee in a good mind!” answered Evaline. “Farewell!”