To Arthur speech was equally impossible, save in the scarcely articulate expressions of love and veneration which he lavished on her.  What he had hoped in thus seeking her he could not himself have defined.  His whole soul was absorbed in the wild wish to see her again, and the thoughts of death for her had never entered his heart.  The shock, then, had been terrible, and to realize the infinite mercy which thus bade sorrow cease, was in such a moment impossible.  He could but gaze and clasp her closer and closer, yet, as if even death should be averted by his love.

“Uncle Julien,” she murmured, as she faintly extended her hand towards him, “thou wilt not refuse to clasp hands with one who has so loved thy Marie!  And thou, Arthur, oh! scorn him not.  Without him the invisible dungeons of the Inquisition would have been my grave, and thine that of a dishonored knight and suspected murderer.”

The eyes of her companions met, and their hands were grasped in that firm pressure, betraying unity of feeling, and reciprocal esteem, which need no words.

“Raise me a little, dearest Arthur; uncle Julien” put back that spreading bough.  I would say something more, and the fresher air may give me strength.  Ah! the evening breeze is so fresh and sweet; it always makes me feel as if the spirits of those we loved were hovering near us.  We hold much closer and dearer communion with the beloved dead in the calm twilight than in the garish day.  Arthur, dearest, thou wilt think of me sometimes in an hour like this.”

“When shall I not think of thee?” he passionately rejoined.  “Oh, Marie, Marie!  I thought separation on earth the worst agony that could befall me; but what—­what is it compared to the eternal one of death?”

“No, no, not eternal, Arthur.  In heaven I feel there is no distinction of creed or faith; we shall all love God and one another there, and earth’s fearful distinctions can never come between us.  I know such is not the creed of thy people, nor of some of mine; but when thou standest on the verge of eternity, as I do now, thou wilt feel this too.”

“How can I gaze on thee, and not believe it?” he replied.  “The loudest thunders of the church could not shake my trust in the purity of heaven, which is thine.”

“Because thou lovest, Arthur.  Thy love for Marie is stronger than thy hatred of her race; and, oh! if thou lovest thus, I know thou hast forgiven.”

“Forgiven!” he passionately reiterated.

“Yes, dearest Arthur.  Is the past indeed so obliterated that the wrong I did thee is forgotten even as forgiven?  But, oh, Arthur! it was not so unjustifiable as it seemed then.  I dared not breathe the truth in Isabella’s court.  I dare not whisper it now save to thee, who would die rather than reveal it.  Arthur, dearest Arthur, it was no Christian whom I wedded.  We had been betrothed from early childhood, though I knew it not; and when the time came, I could not draw down on me a father’s curse, or dash with agony a heart that so cherished, so loved me, by revelation of a truth which could avail me nothing, and would bring him but misery.  Ferdinand was my cousin—­a child of Israel, as myself.”