"Oh, Alagraf," returned Cañeri, unable any longer to contain himself, "I am the happiest of men—Theodora—the beautiful Theodora has at length yielded to the soft persuasions of love, and it is to you, my good Alagraf, that I stand chiefly indebted for such favorable results."
The renegade started back in visible consternation. Cañeri's words sent daggers to his heart. Could it be possible? the amiable and elevated Theodora, sunk to the base minion of so worthless a character! and all his plans overturned for ever! It appeared unaccountable—impossible. Theodora could not look kindly upon the object of her late mortal abhorrence.—Such a transition was abrupt—unnatural—unless, indeed, her reason had fallen a sacrifice to her accumulated distress.
Terrible thoughts coursed over the troubled and darkened brow of the renegade, whilst his whole person manifested strong marks of the passion that agitated his bosom.
"Alagraf, what means this emotion? why, you appear thunderstruck."
"Yes;" replied the renegade, assuming his composure, "with surprise. But you said it was to my good offices you stood indebted for your success. Now would you favour me with the particulars of such an extraordinary conquest?"—
"Aye, my friend," returned vauntingly Cañeri; "Fortune is very capricious. She never works progressively, but by starts, and then according to the mood she is in, a man is either overpowered with misery or with bliss. Some time since both the affairs of my country and those of my heart went on desperately; the scales are now turned, and I am blessed in a double triumph.
"But," cried the renegade, "the nature of your triumph I would fain learn."
"It is complete," replied Cañeri with complacency.
"Complete!" re-echoed the renegade with emotion—"complete! how?"
"At least by anticipation," returned the Moor. "Complete by anticipation. Nothing is yet concluded."