What do I want more?  Why deceive myself in feigning ignorance of what would be his sentiments now, were it in my power to consult his will?” It was, however, a terrible task for Oswald to return to Corinne, after what had passed the evening before, without saying something in confirmation of the sentiments which he had expressed.  His agitation and his trouble became so violent, that they affected a ruptured blood-vessel which he thought had completely healed up, but which now re-opened and began to bleed afresh.  Whilst his servants, in affright, called everywhere for assistance, he secretly wished that the end of life might terminate his sufferings.—­“If I could die,” said he, “after having seen Corinne once more, after having heard her again call me her Romeo!”—­Tears rolled down his cheeks; they were the first tears he had shed for the sake of another since the death of his father.

He wrote to Corinne informing her of his accident, and some melancholy words terminated his letter.  Corinne had begun this day under the most deceitful auspices:  happy in the impression she conceived she had made upon Oswald, believing herself beloved, she was happy; nor did busy thought conjure up any reflection not in unison with what she so much desired.  A thousand circumstances ought to have mingled considerable fear with the idea of espousing Lord Nelville; but as there was more passion than foresight in her character, governed by the present, and not diving into the future, this day, which was to cost her so many pangs, dawned upon her as the most pure and serene of her life.

On receiving Oswald’s note, her soul was a prey to the most cruel feelings:  she believed him in imminent danger, and set out immediately on foot, traversing the Corso at the hour when all the city were walking there, and entered the house of Oswald in face of all the first society of Rome.  She had not taken time to reflect, and had walked so fast, that when she reached the chamber, she could not breathe, or utter a single word.  Lord Nelville conceived all that she had risked to come and see him, and exaggerating the consequences of this action, which in England would have entirely ruined the reputation of an unmarried woman, he felt penetrated with generosity, love, and gratitude, and rising up, feeble as he was, he pressed Corinne to his heart, and cried:—­“My dearest love!  No, I never will abandon you!  After having exposed yourself on my account!  When I ought to repair—­” Corinne comprehended what he would say, and as she gently disengaged herself from his arms, interrupted him thus, having first enquired how he was:—­“You are deceived, my lord; in coming to see you I do nothing that most of my countrywomen would not do in my place.  I knew you were ill—­you are a stranger here—­you know nobody but me; it is therefore my duty to take care of you.  Were it otherwise, ought not established forms to yield to those real and profound sentiments, which the danger or the grief of a friend give birth