He is now on that spot once more:—he pauses—looks around—and Isabella again approaches.
Richard rushes forward, and clasps the beauteous Italian maiden in his arms.
"Isabella—dearest Isabella! What good angel prompted you to grant me this interview?" he exclaimed, when the first effusion of joy was over.
"Do you think me indiscreet, Richard?" asked the signora, taking his arm, and glancing timidly towards his countenance.
"Indiscreet, my sweet girl!" cried her lover: "Oh! how can you suppose that I would entertain a harsh feeling with regard to that goodness on your part which doubtless instigated you to afford me the happiness of this meeting?"
"But when we met here—seven or eight months ago, Richard," said Isabella, "I told you that never—never would I consent to a stolen interview. And now—you may imagine—"
"I imagine that you love me, Isabella—love me as I love you," exclaimed Markham; "and what other idea can occupy my thoughts when that one is present? Oh! you know not the ineffable joy—the unequalled pleasure which I experienced when your letter reached me yesterday. I recognised your handwriting immediately; and I seized the letter with avidity, when it was brought to me in my study. And then, Isabella—will you believe me when I tell you that I trembled to open it? I laid it upon the table—my hand refused to break the seal. Pardon me—forgive me, if for a moment I feared—"
"That I had forgotten my vows—my plighted affection," faltered Isabella, reproachfully.
"Again I say pardon—forgive me, dearest girl; but—oh! I have been so very unfortunate!"
"Think not of the past, Richard," said Isabella, tenderly.