“Oh, no, no! thy love is not changed, save that it may be dearer still; but thine eyes looked not thus the day we parted. There are deeper sterner feelings in thy soul than heretofore; the change is there. The storms of which thou speakest have not been outward only—glory, ambition, love, are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now.”
“And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou not love thy soldier still?”
“Oh, yes! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorges his Idalie may not revere. But tell me these inward storms—why is thy look, save when it is turned on me, so strangely stern? It was not always thus?”
“Call it not stern my love: ’tis but the shadow of my spirit’s change. I did not think thou wouldst so soon have marked it; yet ’tis not sternness, or if it be, ’tis only towards myself. When we parted, dearest, I lived for earth and earthly things; but with sorrow came thoughts of that higher world, which must banish the idle smile and idler jest; ’tis thus that I am changed.”
“And is this all?” faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his face; “is this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy cheek and brow bear such true witness? The thought of heaven brings with it but balm and rest—not strife and pain. Gabriel, this is not all.”
“It is not all, my own! I would not have a thought concealed from thee; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain. Listen to me beloved one; and oh, believe, Montgomeri would not lightly turn aside from the path his fathers trod; yet hadst thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes, the awful passions, which have crept into the bosom of our holy church; the fearful darkness of ignorance and bigotry over-spreading the pure light marking the path of Jesus, thou wouldst feel with me, and acknowledge that I could not think of God and heaven, and yet be other than I am. Idalie, speak to me! wherefore art thou thus?”
He ceased in terror; her features had become contracted, her lip and check blanched almost as death. Her large eyes distended in their terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands which had convulsively closed on his, were cold and rigid as stone.
“It cannot, cannot be,” she murmured, in a low shuddering tone. “Montgomeri could not be other than true: no, no. Why will you speak thus, love?” she added, somewhat less unnaturally. “What can such strange words mean, save that thy sword, like my father’s, will never be unsheathed in persecuting wars—answer me, Gabriel, is it not so?”
“Alas! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon of every true man is needed to protect the creed which conviction has embraced. In these dark times this badge of Protestantism and the sword of defence must ever be raised together. Idalie, the world may term me heretic; but thou—”
“Thou art no heretic; no, no—it cannot be!” burst from the wrung heart of Idalie, as she wildly sprang from his embrace, “Montgomeri, thou art deceiving me—thou wouldst try the love I bear thee! Oh, not thus, not thus! Say thou art no heretic; thou art still the man my father loved, trusted, blessed; him to whom he gave his child. Speak to me; answer me—but one word!”