'I knew not that you where here—I came to visit your father—we march tomorrow—and—and——'
Evan paused breathlessly, though his voice seemed to thrill with passion, and his lips, when they touched her hands—even the hand with the obnoxious wedding-hoop—trembled and quivered like those of a girl.
'Evan,' she said, softly, 'Evan!'
'My darling—my lost darling!' broke from his lips, as he clasped her in his arms, and her slender fingers softly and tremulously caressed his dark and closely-curling hair with something that was almost motherly, or sisterly, in the intensity of its tenderness.
'Oh, Evan,' she whispered, 'may God watch over you, spare you, protect you, and give you some other heart to make you happy.'
It was some solace to Evan's wounded spirit that she had been in a manner—apart from her temporary doubt of himself—forced into her marriage; that her own free will, poor girl, had no hand in the matter.
Clasped to his heart, hers was beating for some moments 'with the wild music of recovered joy, her great dread silenced by her greater passion.'
But to what end was it all?
'This is madness!' exclaimed Evan, as they stood for a minute, hand clasped in hand, and gazing into each other's eyes.
'Madness indeed!' moaned Eveline.