He felt the arm tremble that was closely locked in his, and he could see her lip curl like a rose-leaf fluttering in the breeze.
“Speak, Mittie, and tell me what you mean. I can think of but one passion now, and that the strongest and deepest that ever ruled the heart of man.”
“I cannot describe my meaning,” replied Mittie, pausing under a tree that shaded their path, and leaning against its trunk; “but I can feel it. Till you came, I knew not what feeling was; I read of it in books. It was the theme of many a fluent tongue, but all was cold and passive here,” said she, pressing her hand on the throbbing heart that now ached with the intensity of its emotion. “Everybody said I had no heart, and I believed them. You first taught me that there was a vital spark burning within it, and blew upon it with a breath of flame. I tell you, Clinton, you had better tamper with the lightning’s chain than the passions of this suddenly awakened heart. I tell you I am a dangerous being. There is a power within me that makes me tremble with its consciousness. I am a young girl, with no experience. I know nothing of the blandishments of art, and if I did I would scorn to exercise them. You have told me a thousand times that you loved me and I have believed you. I would willingly die a thousand times for the rapture of hearing it once; but if I thought the being lived who could supplant me—if I thought you could ever prove false to me—”
Her eye flashed and her cheek glowed in the night-beams that, as Clinton said, made her their focus, so brightly were they reflected from her face. What Clinton said, it is unnecessary to repeat, for the language of passion is commonplace, unless it flows from lips as fresh and unworldly and impulsive as Mittie’s.
“Let me put a mark on this tree,” she said, stooping down and picking up a sharp fragment of rock at its base. “If you ever forget what you have said to me this night, I will lead you to this spot, and show you the wounded bark—”
She began to carve her own initials, but he insisted upon substituting his penknife and assisting her in the task, to which she consented. As they stood side by side, he guiding her hand, and his long, soft locks playing against her cheek, or mingling with her own, she surrendered herself to a feeling of unalloyed happiness, when all at once Miss Thusa’s legend of the Black Knight, with the dark, far-flowing hair, and the maiden with the bleeding heart, came to her remembrance, and she involuntarily shuddered.
“Why am I ever recalling that wild legend?” thought she. “I am getting to be as weak and superstitious as Helen. Why, when it seems to me that the wing of an angel is fluttering against my cheek, should I remember that demon-sprite?”
Underneath her initials he carved his own, in larger, bolder characters.
“Would you believe it,” said she, in a light mocking tone, “that I felt every stroke of your knife on that bark? Oh, you do not know how deep you cut! It seems that my life is infused into that tree, and that it is henceforth a part of myself.”
“Strange, romantic girl that you are! Supposing the lightning should strike it, think you that you would feel the shaft?”