'Why should all this be, Nicola; listen to me. Here are a church and a priest,' (Father Colville was at that moment waving to us an adieu from the porch,) 'why cannot we marry? Here is a ring too—it was my mother's, Nicola. 'Tis but a few words—"with this ring, I thee wed—this gold and silver I give thee—and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow," and then heaven alone could separate us.'
'Poor Arthur! your gold and silver, as yet, the pay of a Scottish cuirassier; your worldly goods in France, the dust of a day's march. Yet would I wed you,' she added, while her tears fell fast and hot; 'but I have others than myself, to consult, others who would rather see me in my grave than the wife of soldier of fortune. Our ranks are unequal; and I—with all your present love—would wed but future misery.'
'Oh! Nicola, and have you no trust in me? What mean you by present love, and future misery?'
'Would you rejoin the proud, fiery, and haughty Garde de Corps Ecossais, with a French soubrette as your bride?'
'No—we would quit France.'
'Does not this admission show there is a shame to shun?'
'A shame, Nicola!' I stammered.
'Yes—and what of the Countess's promises to you—are they as yet fulfilled?'
'Alas! no.'
'And your despatches for M. le Chevalier Hepburn; are they as yet delivered?'