I checked the horses beneath a magnolia-tree, and sat quietly waiting for the flood of emotion to subside as for him to take the initiative.  I had no word to say, no consolation to offer.  Nay, after consideration, rather did I glory in his grief, which redeemed his nature in my estimation, though grieved in turn to have afflicted him.  For, in spite of all his faults, and my earlier prejudices, I loved this impulsive Southron man, as Scott has it, “right brotherly.”

At last, looking up grave, tearless, and pale, and resuming his reins without apology for having surrendered them, he said, abruptly: 

“All is so vain!  Such mockery now to me!  She was the sole reality of this universe to my heart!  I grapple with shadows unceasingly.  There is not on the face of this globe a more desolate wretch.  You understand this!  You feel for me, you do not deride me!  You know how perfect, how spiritual she was!  You loved her well—­I saw it in your eyes, your manner—­and for that, if nothing else, you have my heart-felt gratitude.  So few appreciated her unearthly purity.  Yet, was it not strange she should have loved a man so gross, so steeped in sensuous, thoughtless enjoyment—­so remote from God as I am—­have ever been?  But the song speaks for me”—­waving his gauntleted hand—­“better than I can speak: 

    “’Away! away! the chords are mute,
        the bond is rent in twain.’”

“I shall never marry again—­never!  Miss Miriam, I know now, and shall know evermore, in all its fullness, and weariness, and bitterness, the meaning of that terrible word—­alone!  Eternal solitude.  The Robinson Crusoe of society.  A sort of social Daniel Boone.  ’Thus you must ever consider me.  And yet, just think of it.  Miss Harz!”

“Oh, but you will not always feel so; there may come a time of reaction.”  I hesitated.  It was not my purpose to encourage change.

“No, never! never!” he interrupted, passionately; “don’t even suggest it—­don’t! and check me sternly if ever I forget my grief again in frivolity of any sort in your presence.  You are a noble, sweet woman, with breadth enough of character to make allowances for the shortcomings of a poor, miserable man like me—­trying to cheat himself back into gayety and the interests of life.  I have sisters, but they are not like you.  I wish to Heaven they were!  There is not a woman in the world on whom I have any claims—­on whose shoulder I can lean my head and take a hearty cry.  And what are men at such a season?  Mocking fiends, usually, the best of them!  I shall go abroad, Miss Harz.  I am no anchorite.  You will hear of me as a gay man of the world, perhaps; but, as to being happy, that can never be again!  The bubble of life has burst, and my existence falls flat to the earth.  Victor Favraud, that airy nothing, is scarcely a ‘local habitation and a name’ now!”

“Let him make a name, then,” I urged.  “With military talents like yours, Major Favraud, the road to distinction will soon be open to you.  Our approaching difficulties with France—­”