“We have been severed too long,—­we must know each other again,” replied Adrian.  “I shall seek thee, ere long, be assured.”

Turning to take his leave of Irene, he conveyed her hand to his lips, and pressing it, as it dropped from his clasp, was he deceived in thinking that those delicate fingers lightly, involuntarily, returned the pressure?

Chapter 1.VII.  Upon Love and Lovers.

If, in adopting the legendary love tale of Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare had changed the scene in which it is cast for a more northern clime, we may doubt whether the art of Shakespeare himself could have reconciled us at once to the suddenness and the strength of Juliet’s passion.  And, even as it is, perhaps there are few of our rational and sober-minded islanders who would not honestly confess, if fairly questioned, that they deem the romance and fervour of those ill-starred lovers of Verona exaggerated and over-drawn.  Yet, in Italy, the picture of that affection born of a night—­but “strong as death”—­is one to which the veriest commonplaces of life would afford parallels without number.  As in different ages, so in different climes, love varies wonderfully in the shapes it takes.  And even at this day, beneath Italian skies, many a simple girl would feel as Juliet, and many a homely gallant would rival the extravagance of Romeo.  Long suits in that sunny land, wherein, as whereof, I now write, are unknown.  In no other land, perhaps, is there found so commonly the love at first sight, which in France is a jest, and in England a doubt; in no other land, too, is love, though so suddenly conceived, more faithfully preserved.  That which is ripened in fancy comes at once to passion, yet is embalmed through all time by sentiment.  And this must be my and their excuse, if the love of Adrian some too prematurely formed, and that of Irene too romantically conceived;—­it is the excuse which they take from the air and sun, from the customs of their ancestors, from the soft contagion of example.  But while they yielded to the dictates of their hearts, it was with a certain though secret sadness—­a presentiment that had, perhaps, its charm, though it was of cross and evil.  Born of so proud a race, Adrian could scarcely dream of marriage with the sister of a plebeian; and Irene, unconscious of the future glory of her brother, could hardly have cherished any hope, save that of being loved.  Yet these adverse circumstances, which, in the harder, the more prudent, the more self-denying, perhaps the more virtuous minds, that are formed beneath the northern skies, would have been an inducement to wrestle against love so placed, only contributed to feed and to strengthen theirs by an opposition which has ever its attraction for romance.  They found frequent, though short, opportunities of meeting—­not quite alone, but only in the conniving presence of Benedetta:  sometimes in the public gardens, sometimes amidst