It was daylight before he awoke. Springing to the floor, he found that, after having been awake the whole night, Inez had at last fallen into a slumber.
As he proceeded to achieve his toilet, he called to mind, with a thrill of remorse, all that Inez had disclosed to him, and how far he was responsible for the wretchedness of her position. What a bitter retribution had one slight deviation from rectitude brought upon him! After his escapes in the field, his dangers on the seas, and his extraordinary vicissitudes as an adventurer, his life was to be crossed by an error, just as it was opening on a land of promise. Nor was it solely on this personal ground that he looked on that error with remorse. His heart, though it had committed a momentary excess, was stored with manly and noble feelings, and, while it reproached him for his own conduct, inspired him with the liveliest commiseration for Inez. He thought of her beauty, her innocence, and her lofty spirit; but above all, as referring more nearly to himself, he thought of the deep and devoted love, which she had so unequivocally manifested for him.
The heart, in matters concerning the affections, but especially in a matter of love, is a dangerous thing to trifle with, and should always be sounded with the nicest care. When our sympathies are astir, we are liable to contract impressions, under a sort of surprise, that will deceive our own selves, and, though they are only superficial influences, sway us with the force of passions. If we searched our hearts deeply, we would find, on a closer view, that those impressions are not created so much by external agents, as by innate feelings; and, further, that we understand their nature very imperfectly, and entirely mistake their tendency. What we conceive, for instance, to be love, may really be no more than an elevated sympathy, though our inclination to mistake it may give it the colouring and force of love, and the strength of passion. If, in the outset, indeed, we apply to it the tests which love should sustain—if we propose to it the sacrifices that love would offer, or the mortifications that love would brave—the delusion will vanish; but, in the ecstacy of the moment, this course rarely occurs to us, and we cling to the delusion till it appears real, and renders us as giddy as absolute intoxication.
Hildebrand was a man of arms; but his heart, as has been said, was full of strong feelings, and lofty affections. He was no weakling, who would allow those affections and feelings to be his master; but, at the same time, he allowed them their due and legitimate influence. He thought of Inez, and, while he did think of her, the deep and ardent sympathies of his nature, which she had never touched before, insensibly associated with his thoughts, and made the thread that ran through them assume the appearance of love.
What a miserable infatuation! When he first discovered that he loved Evaline, did the obstacles to a successful issue, though their name was Legion, give his heart the slightest concern? Was it not light, and springing, and buoyant as morning? And now, without giving a thought to Evaline, he found that he loved another; and his heart was heavy as death.
No! it was not love! It was pity, sympathy, and an utter abandonment of his own self. It was the remorse of a noble spirit, which prostrated itself, and all that it valued in the world, at the feet of one whom it felt that it had wronged.
Nearly an hour elapsed before Inez awoke. Then, looking up, her eyes met those of Hildebrand, who was watching over her.
“How farest thou, sweet lady?” Hildebrand asked, in a tremulous tone.
“I’faith, marvellous thirsty,” answered Inez.