But they are silent for awhile, for they wish to dwell on that hopeful, that blissful season. And a nightingale, alighting on a bough above them, pours forth its sweet plaint, as if in response to their tender emotions. They praise the bird's song, and it suddenly ceases.
For the little girl, full of malevolence, stretches forth her hand, and it drops to the ground, as if stricken by a dart.
"Is thy heart broken, poor bird?" exclaimed the young man, taking up the hapless songster, yet warm and palpitating. "To die in the midst of thy song—'tis hard."
"Very hard!" replied the maiden, tearfully. "Its fate seems a type of our own."
The little girl laughed, but in a low tone, and to herself.
The pair then grew sad. This slight incident had touched them deeply, and their conversation took a melancholy turn. They spoke of the blights that had nipped their love in the bud—of the canker that had eaten into its heart—of the destiny that so relentlessly pursued them, threatening to separate them for ever.
The little girl laughed merrily.
Then they spoke of the grave—and of hope beyond the grave; and they spoke cheerfully.
The little girl could laugh no longer, for with her all beyond the grave was despair.
After that they spoke of the terrible power that Satan had lately obtained in that unhappy district, of the arts he had employed, and of the votaries he had won. Both prayed fervently that his snares might be circumvented, and his rule destroyed.