“Ere I met you,” said Oswald, “I meant to fulfil his wish as an act of expiation; but now,” he went on passionately, “you have triumphed over my whole being.  My doubts are over, love; I am yours for ever.  Would my father have had it otherwise had he known you?”

“Hold,” cried Corinne, “speak not thus to me yet!”

“Ah, tell me what you have to tell me!”

“Presently I shall; and I shall hear my sentence from your lips unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel.”

Ere she revealed her story, Corinne gave a fete, as if to enjoy one more day of fame and happiness ere her lover pronounced her doom.  It was held on the cape of Micena.  The lovely bay and its islands lay before the party; Vesuvius frowned in the background.  As the party embarked to return in the glowing calm of the evening hour, Corinne put back her tresses that she might better enjoy the sea air; Oswald had never seen her look so beautiful.

“Oh, my love, oh, my love,” he whispered, “can I ever forget this day?”

“Alas!” returned Corinne, “I hope not for such another day.”

“Corinne!” he cried, “here is the ring my father gave his wife, let me give it to you, and while you keep it, let me be no longer free.”

“No, no! take it back,” she answered in a stifled voice.

“I shall not,” he replied; “I swear never to wed another till you send back that ring.”

“Perhaps when you have read my history, the dreadful word adieu—­”

“Never,” cried Oswald, “until my deathbed—­fear not that word till then.”

“Alas!” said Corinne, “as I looked at the heavens a minute ago, the moon was covered by a cloud of fatal aspect.  A childish superstition came back to my mind.  To-night the sky condemns our love.”

That evening Corinne’s maid brought him the papers in which she had written her story.

III.—­Corinne’s Story

“Oswald, I begin with the avowal that must determine my fate.  Lord Edgarmond was my father.  I was born in Italy; his first wife was a Roman lady; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister by my father’s second marriage.

“I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and remained in the care of an aunt at Florence until I was fifteen, when my father brought me to his home in Northumberland.  My stepmother was a cold, dignified, silent woman, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child Lucy, then three years old; but she usually wore so positive an air that it seemed impossible to make her understand a new idea.

“My tastes and talents had already been formed, and they were but ill-suited to the dismal monotony of my life in Northumberland.  I was bidden to forget Italy; I was not allowed to converse on poetry or art; I had no congenial friends.  Even the sun, that might have reminded me of Italy, was often hidden by fog.  My only occupation was the education of my half-sister; my only solace, the company of my father.