“And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi? Oh! then thou will grant my boon; thou wilt not let thy Constance plead to thee in vain,” said she, after many, many minutes had rolled by, unheeded in that sad commune, and she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the white rose that, beat by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head to earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness.
“Boon—in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is there aught thou canst ask Luigi will deny?”
“Ah! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave; nor will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou must pledge it me, my love; aye, by solemn oath—by hallowed vow—I claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse me?”
Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fearfully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon his bosom.
“Saved! saved! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi; thou wilt live—be free—thou shalt not die!”
He started to his feet; the whole truth bursting on his mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he were spared to her? no, no, it could not be. “Live! Constance, my blessed one, what canst thou mean? my life is forfeited!”
“No, no, no!” she reiterated, “it is granted thee, and on conditions easy to accept. Luigi! thou hast sworn to grant my boon—to do my bidding; and I bid thee live! live, to be happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be! Speak not; hear me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples no longer a kingdom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons—no name—one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the next bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these mighty potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father can never claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the vain hope of her freedom—her future influence. Were Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did to all when he departed, ‘My children, ’tis vain to struggle; make peace with whom ye will; Frederic absolves you of your allegiance. No oath of fealty restrains you.’ Hast thou forgotten this? no, no; then wherefore shouldst thou pause; many have bowed to Louis, why not to Ferdinand?—Luigi, my own Luigi, thou shalt live!”
“Constance,” he answered, and he drew her closer to his bosom, while his own frame shook, “Constance, were this the sole condition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not paused—even thus I would have lived; for this poor, unhappy country, I feel, will never rise again; such oath reflects no shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told thee?”
“Luigi, no; there is another,—we must part—for ever! Yet—yet, I bid thee live.” Slowly every word fell; but so distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone, he heard them all, and not he alone.
“Ha! thou knowest this. Part, Constance! and thou bidst me live! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee; I will not wed another.”