How difficult to realize the conviction, that within an hour he had stood by their bloody tomb—poor victims of misguided ambition, of feudal pride, and political misrule! Yet an age seemed to have elapsed since last he had seen their faces.
Suddenly he heard a light step and the rustling of a dress; a small hand drew rapidly aside the arras which covered a door, and Murielle, with bloodshot eyes and her sweet little face pale with tears and loss of sleep, rushed towards him.
"Oh, Patrick Gray, Patrick Gray!" she exclaimed, throwing herself in all the abandonment of grief into his arms, and laying her cold cheek upon his breast; "Oh my love, my heart—what new miseries, what new crimes and dangers, are these that come to cast their gloom and horror upon us?"
He endeavoured to calm and soothe her; but suddenly quitting him, she besought him to leave her, and return instantly to the castle.
"Leave you, Murielle?" he reiterated, "think of the time that has elapsed since I have seen you, conversed with you—since I have been with you alone; and think of the time that may elapse ere we meet again."
"Yet go—go," she added, clasping her hands, "if you love me, go!"
"If—ah! Murielle——"
"Leave me—shun me! this love will end in your destruction," she exclaimed with wild energy.
"I am almost inclined to stay, Murielle, and risk everything, were it but to prove how much I do love you."
"By making me miserable for ever, by seeing you perish before me—oh, even as my poor kinsmen perished!" she added in a piercing accent, while wringing her pretty hands, and half withdrawing from him.