“It is impossible to guess with accuracy—if, indeed, it ever should come. But the king has heard for some time of the suppression of the enterprise, and it can scarcely be more than two weeks before we hear from him. But to what does your question tend?”
“Simply this,” returned Virginia. “The wigwam of Mamalis is only about two miles from the hall, and in so secluded a spot that it is entirely unknown to any of the Governor's party. There we can supply your present wants, and give you timely warning of any approaching danger. The old wigwam is a good deal dilapidated, but then it will at least afford you shelter from the weather.”
“And from that ruder storm which threatens me,” said Hansford, gloomily. “You are right. I know the place well, and trust it may be a safe retreat, at least for the present. But, alas! how sad is my fate,—to be skulking from justice like a detected thief or murderer, afraid to show my face to my fellow in the open day, and starting like a frightened deer at every approaching sound. Oh, it is too horrible!”
“Think not of it thus,” said Virginia, in an encouraging voice. “Remember it only as the dull twilight that divides the night from the morning. This painful suspense will soon be over; and then, safe and happy, we will smile at the dangers we have passed.”
“No, Virginia,” said Hansford, in the same gloomy voice, “you are too hopeful. There is a whispering voice within that tells me that this plan will not succeed, and that we cannot avoid the dangers which threaten me. No,” he cried, throwing off the gloom which hung over him, while his fine blue eye flashed with pride. “No! The decree has gone forth! Every truth must succeed with blood. If the blood of the martyrs be the seed of the Church, it may also enrich the soil where liberty must grow; and far rather would I that my blood should be shed in such a cause, than that it should creep sluggishly in my veins through a long and useless life, until it clotted and stagnated in an ignoble grave.”
“Oh, there spoke that fearful pride again,” said Virginia, with a deep sigh; “the pride that pursues its mad career, unheeding prudence, unguided by judgment, until it is at last checked by its own destruction. And would you not sacrifice the glory that you speak of, for me?”
“You have long since furnished me the answer to that plea, my girl,” he replied, pressing her tenderly to his heart. “Do you remember, Lucasta,
'I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.'
Believe me, my Virginia, it is an honourable and not a glorious name I seek. Without the latter, life still would be happy and blessed when adorned by your smiles. Without the former, your smile and your love would add bitterness to the cup that dishonour would bid me quaff. And now, Virginia, farewell. The night air has chilled you, dearest—then go, and remember me in your dreams. One fond kiss, to keep virgined upon my lips till we meet again. Farewell, Mamalis—be faithful to your kind mistress.” And then imprinting one long, last kiss upon the fair cheek of the trusting Virginia, he turned from the door, and was soon lost from their sight in the dense forest.
Once more in her own little room, Virginia, with a grateful heart, fell upon her knees, and poured forth her thanks to Him, who had thus far prospered her endeavours to minister to the cares and sorrows of her lover. With a calmer heart she sought repose, and wept herself to sleep with almost happy tears. Hansford, in the mean time, pursued his quiet way through the forest, his pathway sufficiently illumined by the pale moonlight, which came trembling through the moaning trees. The thoughts of the young rebel were fitfully gloomy or pleasant, as despondency and hope alternated in his breast. In that lonely walk he had an opportunity to reflect calmly and fully upon his past life. The present was indeed clouded with danger, and the future with uncertainty and gloom. Yet, in this self-examination, he saw nothing to justify reproach or to awaken regret. He scanned his motives, and he felt that they were pure. He reviewed his acts, and he saw in them but the struggles of a brave, free man in the maintenance of the right. The enterprise in which he had engaged had indeed failed, but its want of success did not affect the holiness of the design. Even in its failure, he proudly hoped that the seeds of truth had been sown in the popular mind, which might hereafter germinate and be developed into freedom. As these thoughts passed through his mind, a dim dream of the future glories of his country flashed across him. The bright heaven of the future seemed to open before him, as before the eyes of the dying Stephen—but soon it closed again, and all was dark.