"My Theodora," he said, "is it possible that I cannot remove the continued dejection that preys upon you?"
"Forgive me, Lope," she answered; "the expression of my grief I know is painful to thee, but a dismal foreboding obtrudes itself upon my mind, which I strive in vain to banish. Alas! it is fraught with a most fearful, but indefinite anticipation; a woeful presage that freezes my very soul."
"Hush such foolish chimeras," said Gomez Arias; "it is true that, for greater security of avoiding observation, I have been obliged to seek studiously the most unfrequented paths, and travel through these wild and solitary passes; but our journey draws to a conclusion, and all the appalling images of Moorish ruffians will soon be entirely dispelled."
"Alas! the dreaded sight of those infidels is not the only cause of my emotion," sadly replied Theodora.
"What else can occasion it?" demanded Gomez Arias, with anxiety. "Surely, my Theodora repents not the hour she intrusted herself to the protection of Gomez Arias?"
She spoke not for some time;—a flood of tears relieved her bursting bosom: then, as if struggling to collect her forces which were almost overpowered by sad recollections, she exclaimed—"Oh! never mention the hour of my crime—for crime it was, and a deadly sin, to abandon the best of parents, in his old age; and yet," she added, sobbing, "conscious as I am of my guilt, were the sin again to be committed, for thy sake, Lope, I should again brave the voice of self-reproach.—Gomez Arias, wert thou to read the hidden pages of my heart, there thou wouldst find a tale of boundless love and never-ending sorrow, which no words of mine can describe, but which must embitter the future portion of my existence, unless we speedily obtain the forgiveness of my injured parent."
"Nay, Theodora, this weakness is as unreasonable as it is unjust; nor can I at all imagine why thy future life should be embittered with grief, united as it is with the very being of Gomez Arias."
"I am sensible," cried Theodora, "both of the tenderness and sincerity of your love, and you know full well with what fervent devotion it is requited."
"What, then, can urge your mind to form such desponding anticipations? Have you seen aught in my conduct,—have you discerned anything in my words, that can afford even the shadow of justice to your apprehensions?"
"No, Gomez Arias," she answered; "your conduct to me has always been kind; your words breathing the same solicitude for my comfort and happiness: but you must forgive the weakness and fears of a fond woman's heart. Forgive me, Lope, if these feelings should sometimes create ideas galling at once to my peace, and derogatory to thy constancy and love. I have laboured hard to subdue them, but, alas! the exertion has constantly proved above my strength; I must give them utterance. Oh, Lope," she added; mournfully, "I fear you are not the same. Pardon me,—you are not the same, as when I first surrendered to you all my affections, fondly imagining you were mine for ever."