“No!” I repeated, “no? say that again, and again; yet who then is this that has dared so to agitate and overpower you? Who is he whom you have met, and whom, even now while I speak, you tremble to hear me recur to? Answer me one word: is it this mysterious stranger whom your father honours with his friendship? is it Barnard?”
Alarm and fear again wholly engrossed the expression of Isora’s countenance.
“Barnard!” she said; “yes—yes—it is Barnard!”
“Who is he?” I cried vehemently; “who or what is he; and of what nature is his influence upon you? Confide in me,” and I poured forth a long tide of inquiry and solicitation.
By the time I had ended, Isora seemed to have recovered herself. With her softness was mingled something of spirit and self-control, which was rare alike in her country and her sex.
“Listen to me!” said she, and her voice, which faltered a little at first, grew calm and firm as she proceeded. “You profess to love me: I am not worthy your love; and if, Count Devereux, I do not reject nor disclaim it—for I am a woman, and a weak and fond one—I will not at least wrong you by encouraging hopes which I may not and I dare not fulfil. I cannot,—” here she spoke with a fearful distinctness,—“I cannot, I can never be yours; and when you ask me to be so, you know not what you ask nor what perils you incur. Enough; I am grateful to you. The poor exiled girl is grateful for your esteem—and—and your affection. She will never forget them,—never! But be this our last meeting—our very last—God bless you, Morton!” and, as she read my heart, pierced and agonized as it was, in my countenance, Isora bent over me, for I knelt beside her, and I felt her tears upon my cheek,—“God bless you—and farewell!”
“You insult, you wound me,” said I, bitterly, “by this cold and taunting kindness; tell me, tell me only, who it is that you love better than me.”
Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too proud to detain her; but when I said this, she came back, after a moment’s pause, and laid her hand upon my arm.
“If it make you happy to know my unhappiness,” she said, and the tone of her voice made me look full in her face, which was one deep blush, “know that I am not insensible—”
I heard no more: my lips pressed themselves involuntarily to hers,—a long, long kiss,—burning, intense, concentrating emotion, heart, soul, all the rays of life’s light into a single focus; and she tore herself away from me,—and I was alone.