“But I love you,” she replied.
“To-day I am a poor and penniless man. To-morrow I may be an exile, or a prisoner.”
“But I love you,” she repeated.
“And see—I am maimed! I have lost my right arm! And, worse than all, I have lost it in a bad cause!”
“Poor right arm! I would I could give mine to restore it,” she said.
“And oh, Erminie! my once spotless name is stained with reproach. Could you bear to wear it?”
“Yes, for I love you! Oh, my dearest! I have but that one little phrase to answer all your words—‘I love you!’ Oh, my betrothed, I love you!”
He caught her in his arm, he strained her to his bosom, he burst into tears and wept over her as only a strong man can weep.
“And oh!” he cried, “what shall I render unto the Lord for all His loving kindness and tender mercy, in giving me this dear woman’s heart?
For only Heaven