The night was cold and damp, a drizzling mist fell fast, and that peculiar chill that marks the first approaches of winter, hung in the air; but Lord Edmund thought not of the weather, and he strode bareheaded through the palace-gardens with hurried steps and the actions of a maniac; whilst the thick gloom that pervaded the sky, contrasted fearfully with the brilliantly illuminated apartment he had just quitted. The gloominess of the scene, however, harmonized well with Edmund's feelings; he felt soothed insensibly; and though he still stalked moodily backwards and forwards, he became gradually more calm.
"Ungrateful woman," thought he, "to treat me thus! Does she not owe every thing to me? I could bear her coldness; I could resign her to a throne; but the idea of her loving another drives me to distraction!—Curses on that fiend! It must be by his infernal arts that Ferdinand has triumphed. The cold, the chaste Elvira could never give her love thus—thus almost unsolicited, and at first sight if it were not the work of magic. By Heaven, I would risk my soul for vengeance on that demon!"
As he spoke, his eyes fell upon a thicket near him, and he fancied he saw the figure of a man, half obscured however by the mist, emerge from its gloomy recesses. He gazed intently, and the figure glided slowly on with catlike, creeping steps. The mind of Edmund was worked up to frenzy—he almost fancied a demon had appeared obedient to his wish, to receive his pledge, and work his bidding. "Speak!" cried he, in a voice that sounded fearfully amidst the surrounding stillness—"Speak! art thou a demon, or a mortal?"
All was silent: the figure glided on; and Lord Edmund, oppressed by supernatural terrors, and shuddering at the sound of his own voice, could bear no more; he darted upon the figure, and grasping it roughly, he exclaimed, "Man or devil, I fear thee not, and thus will I grapple with thee."
"Gently, my son," replied the well-known voice of Father Morris; "in what have I offended you?"
"Pardon, holy father," returned Edmund "I knew you not—I knew not what I did—my passion blinded me."
"And what has caused this passion? The mind of Edmund is too noble to be lightly moved."
"Oh! talk not of the nobleness of my mind, father; I feel I am but a poor weak worm. Nobleness belongs to God alone; 'tis blasphemy to apply the term to man."
"Tell me your grievances. They must, I am sure, be great, or they would not thus affect you. It is my holy office to console affliction. Speak then, my son; for, remember, that though joy is doubled by being partaken, grief is lessened by being shared—and woe robbed of half its bitterness."
"I have little to confess, father. I was weak and foolish; but Elvira—"