“Oh no, no, Madaléna, think not so! Do you suppose me capable of betraying you, of casting you off? I, who love you with a perfect love, a love as pure as that which makes the bliss of angels,—with which a child loves its mother? For one fond look from you I would brave the fury of men—of men and the elements. Drive this suspicion from your heart, and God grant that, when you have learnt my secret, you may continue to entertain the same sentiments towards me.”
Thus speaking, Antonio drew near to the maiden, and, hiding his face in her hands, whispered in her ear:—
“Madaléna, Madaléna, I am—a bandit.”
The young girl shrieked with terror, and fainted in his arms. Antonio laid her on the grass, and, having sprinkled her face with the fresh morning dew, knelt by her side. Presently, Madaléna opened her eyes, and seeing Antonio kneeling, and still holding her hand, roused herself with a sudden effort, and, casting on him a look of mingled horror and scorn, said to him,—
“Leave me, Antonio, you make me shudder, your hands are stained with the blood of the innocent.”
Antonio, crazed with love, crawled to her feet and wept; but having, after much difficulty, prevailed with her to hear him, he related to her the story of the skull, the only crime for which he was a bandit. After this explanation, Madaléna seemed to be reassured, and her lover awaited his final sentence from her lips in breathless suspense. The maiden's heart was touched by his tale, and observing him with an air of less severity, she said:—
“I am satisfied that you speak the truth; but I have a mother and father, and I think, that after this disclosure, I could never become your wife without abandoning them for ever. At this moment I am too much agitated to come to any decision; return to morrow, and you shall know my final resolve. Meanwhile, rest assured that I pity and love you still, considering you more unfortunate than guilty, and that I will either be your wife, or the wife of no other man.”
Thus saying, she hastened from the spot.
Antonio saw her depart without having the courage to address to her another word. That man so brave, who knew no fear, recoiled from no danger, wept like a child. A sad presentiment told him that it was his last meeting with Madaléna, though her concluding promise tended in some degree to reassure him.
Madaléna shut herself up in her chamber and shed floods of tears—tears not of love, but of shame. For her—the daughter of a wealthy citizen of Ajaccio, brought up in the manners, and tinctured with the prejudices of the continent, who knew nothing of the world but its empty phantoms, nor of love but its coquetry—it was disgrace to love and be loved by the son of a bandit, by one who was himself a bandit.