“How?” asked master Porphyry.
“Be assured of this,” said his young companion, while again he seemed more attentive to his harp than to his listener. “If, in a reasonable time, the obstacles that retard your union still exist, she will point out a way by which they may be honourably set aside, or acquiesce in any plan with the same object in view, which you may propose.”
“How know you this?” inquired the other hastily.
“I heard her say it,” said the page.
“But before I return, her father may compel her to enter into other arrangements.”
“Eureka has a will which is not to be compelled—she will readily do that which is right—but no power on earth could bend her inclinations to an unjust purpose.”
“And she may be surrounded by dangers—subject to every kind of suffering, and forced to endure a thousand indignities from which I have no power to rescue her,” continued master Porphyry.
“She is surrounded by dangers,” said the youth with emphasis—“dangers new and terrible to other minds; but of these she will think nothing, and of what she may be obliged to endure she will be equally regardless, as long as she is possessed with the conviction, that he for whom alone she suffers is not unmindful of the sacrifices she has made.”
“There is a strength in your words,” said the merchant, laying his hand upon the shoulder of his companion, “which there is no withstanding; and your looks are even more eloquent than your language. How is it possible that one apparently so young should have acquired that force of expression, and depth of meaning, which breathes in every sentence you express.”