"But my heart, boy, tied as I am to another, is valueless as the fruit of the Dead Sea."
I clasped my hands, and said,——
"Speak not thus, Eulalie."
"How dare I offer—how dare you accept it?" she said, while her tears fell hot and fast.
"Dearest Eulalie," I whispered, placing a hand gently on each side of her waist, "I have it already—confess to me that I have."
"True."
Her head fell on my breast, and I gave way to all the delight of the moment.
"Go, go," she said, while deeply agitated; "leave me now; all this can end only in our own misery."
As she spoke, the distant boom of an evening gun from a ship off the coast warned me that the sun had set; that I could have no storm to plead to-night as an excuse for absence from quarters; and, in the language of romancers, "I tore myself away," and again took the nearest path to the garrison.
I hurried along immersed in thought. Regret that I had ever known Eulalie was my predominant reflection; yet, had I not known her,—had I not been cast by fate, fortune—what you will—in her path, she must have perished under the poisonous fangs of the reptile from which I rescued her. Then recalling her own remarkable words, that "love was an irresistible fatality," I endeavoured to appease conscience and stifle regret, but in vain; and now I equally dreaded and longed for the order that would re-embark the Fusiliers for Martinique. In that conflict, which was inevitable, Rouvigny might fall, and she be freed from the snare which bound her to him,—but freed, to what end, to what purpose? Who was I—what was I! Poor, penniless; a soldier whose whole worldly possessions consisted of a knapsack and sixty rounds of ammunition. Amid all these reflections and mental queries, did no memory of Amy—dear, wee, modest Amy Lee—my boyish love, occur to me? I cannot tell now. It seemed as if there was no woman in the world but Eulalie.