She was about to retrace her steps, when her own name was pronounced by the lips of the person seated on the tree,—and in a tone, too, which she could not mistake.
"Oh! Isabella, Isabella, thou knowest not how I love thee!"
An exclamation of surprise—almost of alarm—burst from the lips of the beautiful Italian; and she leant for support against a tree.
Richard Markham—for it was by his lips that her name had been pronounced—raised his head, and gave vent to a cry of the most wild, the most enthusiastic joy.
In a moment he was by her side.
"Isabella!" he exclaimed: "to what good angel am I indebted for this unexpected joy—this immeasurable happiness?"
"Oh! Mr. Markham—forgive me if I intruded upon you—but, accident—"
"Call it not accident, Isabella: it was heaven!—heaven that prompted me to seek this spot to-day, for the first time since that fatal night—"
"Ah! that fatal night," repeated the signora, with a shudder.
Markham dropped the hand which he had taken—which he had pressed for a moment in his: and he retreated a few paces, his entire manner changing as if he were suddenly awakened to a sense of his humiliating condition.