For some miles of the way Nicola had been very sad; but something in the spirit of the above paragraph, which I had infused into my conversation, raised her spirit, and she rallied as we approached St. Michel.
'Dear Arthur,' said she, patting my bridle-hand, while a beautiful smile lit up her loving blue eyes, 'you have a princely heart! I would that I were a countess—yea, even mademoiselle of Lorraine for your sake.'
'The beautiful Marie-Louise?'
'Yes—even the beautiful Marie-Louise—she who is deemed so proud, so artful, and intriguing.'
'Wherefore?'
'Because you could not say or sacrifice more for me, a poor girl, than I would then do for you, a simple gentleman.'
'Listen to me, Nicola. Lovely as this princess, the bride of Count Pappenheim, is famed to be, high though her race, and splendid her fortune, I would not give one golden hair of your beautiful head, Nicola, for Louise with all her rank and splendour.'
'Dear, kind, and loving Arthur!' said she, smiling through her tears; 'but I ought not to love you.'
'Nicola?'
'It is very true—but too true.'