“Corinne,” answered Oswald, “my heart is unchanged.  We will both live for love.  I will return.”

“Return!” interrupted Corinne; “ah, you leave me then!  How all is changed since yesterday!”

“Dearest love,” he replied, “be composed.  It is necessary that I should ascertain my father’s reasons for opposing our union seven years ago.  I will hope for the best, Corinne; but if my father decides against you, I will never be the husband of another, though I cannot be yours.”

One night in Venice a few weeks later, when Corinne was leaving a scene of festivity of which she had been the most brilliant ornament, Oswald led her aside.  She marked his paleness and agitation.

“What has happened?” she cried.

“I must start for England to-night.  My regiment is about to embark for the West Indies, and I am recalled to rejoin it.”

“Ah!” moaned Corinne, “when I tell myself to-morrow ’I shall see him no more,’ the thought may kill me; happy am I if it does.”

“Why do you fear?  Is my solemn promise nothing?”

“Oh, I believe it; but listen—­when you are in London, you will discover that love promises bind not your honour.  Will you find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound on me?  Cannot you at least pity me for loving you thus?”

“Stay!” cried Oswald, seizing her in his arms, “this is too much.  Dearest, I cannot leave you!”

“Nay, you must,” replied Corinne, recalled to herself by his words.

“My love,” answered Oswald, trying to calm himself, “I shall strive during my absence to restore to you your due rank in your father’s country.  If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at your feet.”

A light gleamed through the window, and the gondola that was to take Oswald away stopped at the door.

“They are here—­adieu—­all is ended!” sobbed Corinne.

“Oh God!  O my father!” he exclaimed, “what do ye exact of me?”

He flung himself once more into her arms and then, trembling and pale, like one prepared for the torture, he passed from her sight.

On reaching England, he found that his regiment’s departure had been postponed, and, while waiting, he visited Northumberland, told Lady Edgarmond of his affection for her stepdaughter, and demanded Corinne’s restoration to her rank.  Lady Edgarmond unbendingly refused.

“I owe to your father’s memory,” she added, “my exertion to prevent your union with her if I can.  Your father’s letter on the subject is in the hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson.”

Oswald speedily set out for his ancestral estate in Scotland, anxious to see Mr. Dickson and read the letter.  In Northumberland he had seen Lucy—­a beautiful and sweetly innocent girl, one whom he could plainly see to be a maiden after his father’s own heart.

His father’s letter confirmed his worst fears.  He had wholly disapproved of Oswald’s union with the girl who afterwards became Corinne.  He had thought her wholly unfitted for domestic English life, and had feared that she would destroy his son’s English character and transform him into an Italian.  Oswald was to be acquainted with his wishes if necessary; he knew he would respect them.