“You cannot deny it,” continued the invalid.
“No,” answered the young man; “I have no desire to deny it, but your daughter never heard it from my lips, and never would.”
“Never would!” echoed Löwenberg, firing up. “And do you, too, despise her for her race—she that is as far above you as you are above your lowest peasant!”
“God forbid!” said Henry solemnly; “for I think of her as of one of whom I am not worthy. But my faith forbids our union, and, love her though I shall to my dying day, my love should never cross my lips to stir and wound her heart.”
“You shall see her no more; you have seen her too much already; if you love her, as you say, desist at least now.”
“Do you mean that she knows—perhaps returns—my love?”
“I have said enough, and shall not gratify your vanity. But promise me you will not see her again, and I will even believe that you did not try to proselytize her.”
“No; I cannot promise that. Circumstances might arise under which it would be death to keep that promise, and yet I should have no hope of inducing you to give it me back.”
“You mean she might become a Christian?”
“Even so, as I pray she may.”