Cyrillon flushed—then grew pale.
"I should not have spoken!" he said—"And yet, why not! You were my first friend!—you found me working in the fields, a peasant lad, untrained and sullen, burning up my soul with passionate thoughts which, but for you, might never have blossomed into action,—you rescued me—you made me all I am! So why should I not confess to you at once that there is a woman I love!—yes, love with all my soul, though I have seen her but once!—and she is too far off, too fair and great for me: she does not know I love her—but I heard she had been murdered—that she was dead—"
"Angela Sovrani!" cried Aubrey.
Cyrillon bent his head as a devotee might at the shrine of a saint.
"Yes—Angela Sovrani!"
Aubrey looked at his handsome face glowing with enthusiasm, and saw the passion, the tenderness, the devotion of a life flashing in his fine eyes.
"Love at first sight!" he said with a smile—"I believe it is the only true fire! A glance ought to be enough to express the recognition of one soul to its mate. Well! Angela Sovrani is a woman among ten thousand—the love of her alone is sufficient to make a man better and nobler in every way—and if you can win her—"
"Ah, that is impossible! She is already affianced—"
Aubrey took his arm.
"Come with me, and I will tell you all I know," he said—"For there is much to say,—and when you have heard everything, you may not be altogether without hope."