“And, think you, dearest girl, that I repose less confidence in you? that I can doubt the heart in which is treasured every hope and fond affection of my soul?  From you, pure and disinterested as you are, I have nought to fear; but I cannot look upon the dreary blank of absence, and not feel all the misery, the thousand nameless ills, which that one word comprises!”

“Speak not of it, Arthur; it is not wise to fancy evils which may never have existence, or which, if they are in store for us, Providence has wisely hidden from our view.  You see that I am strong in courage, and too chary of my present happiness, to suffer one gloomy cloud to shade its fleeting brightness!”

“Fleeting, indeed!” he answered, “another day, or two, at most, and if you still decree it, we part for many long and tedious months!”

“So soon!” said Lucie, her cheek changing with emotion; “so very soon, Arthur? why this unexpected haste, this quick departure?”

“You cannot ask me to remain here, Lucie, when to all but you, my presence is a burthen; when every other eye meets me with a coldness and distrust, which, even for your sake, I cannot longer endure!  La Tour but ill concealed his feelings while he thought my services might be useful to him; but now, I can no longer aid his cause, and I will not tax him even for the poor civility he has so grudgingly bestowed!”

“You are right,” said Lucie; “and under such circumstances I cannot even wish you to prolong your stay; but when we next meet, Arthur”—­

“When we next meet, Lucie? would that we were not to part! that I could now prevail on you to unite your fate with mine, and shun the contingencies of another dreaded separation!”

“It is in vain to ask it, Arthur,” she replied; “it would only hasten the opposition and strife of angry feelings, which I would not provoke, till I feel at liberty to obey the dictates of my own will.  My guardian has now a right to prevent my choice, and I have no doubt he would exercise it to the utmost; but when I am freed by law from his authority, he will cease to importune me on a subject so entirely unavailing.  My promise also is pledged to my aunt, that I will not even enter into an engagement without her sanction, before that period.”

“And what is her object in requiring this promise?” asked Stanhope; “is it not in the hope that she shall prevail with you, in my absence, to become the wife of De Valette?”

“Perhaps it is,” said Lucie; “but do not suffer this idea to give you one moment’s uneasiness;—­no, Arthur, believe me, neither threats nor entreaties can change the purpose of my mind, or diminish that affection, which will ever remain as fervent and unchanged, as if the most sacred promise was given to pledge my fidelity, or the most holy vows already united our destinies.”

At that moment they reached a green pathway, leading to Annette’s cottage; and Lucie again reminding Stanhope that he must leave her, he felt compelled, reluctantly, to turn into another direction, and pursue his lonely way to the fort.