“It shines, it shines, it shines, Vivian!” she softly whispered; “glory to thee and woe to me! Nay, you need not hold my hands; I will not harm you. I cannot: ‘tis no use. O Vivian! when we first met, how little did I know to whom I pledged myself!”
“Amalia, forget these wild fancies; estrange yourself from the wild belief which has exercised so baneful an influence, not only over your mind, but over the very soul of the land from which you come. Recognise in me only your friend, and leave the other world to those who value it more, or more deserve it. Does not this fair earth contain sufficient of interest and enjoyment?”
“O Vivian! you speak with a sweet voice, but with a sceptic’s spirit. You know not what I know.”
“Tell me, then, my Amalia; let me share your secrets, provided they be your sorrows.”
“Almost within this hour, and in this park, there has happened that which—” and here her voice died, and she looked fearfully round her.
“Nay, fear not; no one can harm you here, no one shall harm you. Rest upon me, and tell me all thy grief.”
“I dare not, I cannot tell you.”
“Nay, thou shalt.”
“I cannot speak; your eye scares me. Are you mocking me? I cannot speak if you look so at me.”
“I will not look on you; I will gaze on yonder star. Now speak on.”