Conrad, whose morose manner suddenly disappeared for a bold and forward tone, so utterly at variance from his usual that all were surprized, still persisted in asserting that he had but proceeded along the coast, and would join his vessel as she passed onward.  One of the sailors, an old and grey-haired man, who loved De Clairville as a son, indignantly denied the charge.  He was incapable of such an action.  “God grant,” said he, “he may have been fairly dealt with.”  “You would not say he had been murdered,” said Conrad.  “No,” said the old man, “I thought not of that:  if he were, not a leaflet in your woods but would bear witness to the crime.”

We were standing then by the ruined church—­a slender beech tree grew beside it—­one faded leaf yet hovered on its stem—­for an instant it trembled in the blast, then fell at Conrad’s feet, brushing his cheek as it passed.  If the blow of a giant had struck him he could not have fallen more heavily to the ground.  An inward loathing, such as may mortal man never feel to his fellow, forbade me to assist him.  He had fainted; but the cold air soon revived him, and he arose, complaining of sudden illness.  The sailors left us, and the ship sailed slowly from our waters, with her colours floating sadly half-mast high.

Ella thus suddenly bereaved, mourned in wild and bitter grief, but woman’s pride, at times her guardian angel, at others her destroyer, took up its stronghold in her heart.  The tempter Conrad awoke its tones—­with specious wile he recalled De Clairville’s lofty ideas of name and birth—­how proudly he spoke of his lady mother and the castled state of his father’s hall.  Was it not likely that, at the last, this pride had rallied its strength around him, and bade him seek a nobler bride than the lowly maiden of the “Refugees?” Too readily she heard him, for love the fondest is nearest allied to hate the deepest, and De Clairville’s name became a thing for scorn and hate.  ’Twas vain for me to speak—­what could I say?  A species of fascination seemed to be obtained by Conrad o’er her—­a witching spell was in his words—­’twas but the power, swayed by his strong and ill-formed mind, over her weak but gentle one—­which, if rightly guided, would have echoed such sweet music—­and, ere the summer passed, she had forgotten her lost lover, and was to wed him.

To others there was nothing strange in this, but to me it brought a wild and dreary feeling; not that my early dreams were unchanged, for I had learned to think a love like her’s, so lightly lost and won, was not the thing to be prized.  Alas!  I knew not the blackness of the spirit that beguiled her, and wrought such woe.  Still she had done wrong—­the affections of man’s heart may not be idly dealt with—­the woman who feigns what she feels not, has her hand on the lion’s mane.  Ella at one time had done this, and she reaped a dark guerdon for her falsehood.  Yet in her it might have been excused, for the very weakness of her nature led her to it.  Let those who are more strongly gifted beware of her fate.