Konrad sprang to his feet in an agony of anxiety.
"Oh Bothwell, Bothwell!" said Anna; "my dear lord—may heaven forgive thee, freely as I do, all the misery and suffering thou hast caused to this poor heart!"
These words fell like ice on the young man's heart, and he said hurriedly—
"Be of good cheer, and pray to thy patron, the mother of the virgin—I will bring thee succour anon."
"Konrad," said Anna, in her low, soft voice, "my words have stung thee, for thine accent is changed. Pardon me!" she added tremulously, "and remember that I, too, am desolate now. Dost thou cease to love me? Am not I thy sister, Konrad?"
"Thou art, indeed!" replied her lover, whose heart was crushed by his emotion; "and I regard thee with a love more pure and pitying than ever. I am thy friend, Anna—a lover no longer."
"Then, Konrad, kiss and forgive me—for I may die ere thou returnest."
Konrad trembled. A gush that cannot be described—sorrow, love, agony, and despair, swelled up in his breast on hearing this singular and artless request, and, stooping down, he pressed his lips to hers long and passionately.
It was the first time he had ever kissed her, and it was a strange salute.
Anna's lips were burning and parched—Konrad's were cold and quivering, while a palsy seemed to possess his heart; but he sprang from her side, vaulted over the ruined wall, and, giddy with the whirl of his thoughts, rushed down the hill to the margin of the river, and wound his bugle furiously.