"Those of love, too," murmured Anna.
"Yes—yes," said the Earl, whose face was crossed by a sudden shade, which Anna's anxious eye soon perceived; "why should I conceal that, like other boys, I have had my vision of that land of light and roses—visions that faded away, even as the sunlight is now fading on yonder mountain tops—and the hour came when I wondered how such wild hopes had ever been cherished—how such dreams had ever dawned—and I could look back upon my boyish folly with a smile of mingled sadness and of scorn."
"'Tis a bitter reflection that a time may come when one may marvel that one ever loved, my lord."
"And hoped and feared, and made one's-self alternately the victim of misery or of joy—raised to heaven by one glance, and sunk into despair by another. Yet, dear as a first love is while it lasts—at least so say minstrel and romancer—there are thousands who live to thank Heaven that they were not wedded to that first loved one."
"Dost thou really think so?" colouring with something of pique at the tenor of this conversation, which made her think of Konrad.
"The experience of my friends in a thousand instances hath taught me so," said the politic Earl, who began to feel that the topic was unfortunately chosen; "but," he added adroitly, as sinking his voice he took her hand in his, "dear Anna, never will the day come when I shall thank Heaven that I was not wedded to thee."
Again the quick blush rushed to Anna's neck and temples; she bent over her harp, and said in a low but laughing voice—
"Fie! Lord Bothwell, surely I am not your first love?"
"Thou art, indeed, dear Anna!"
"Go, go! I will never believe it."