With the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that laid waste at one fell blow the gardens of delight and sheltered paths which Adrian fancied that he had secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and contumely.  Raymond, the deliverer of Greece, the graceful soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge of all that, peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished as most dear—­ Raymond was loved by Evadne.  Overpowered by her new sensations, she did not pause to examine them, or to regulate her conduct by any sentiments except the tyrannical one which suddenly usurped the empire of her heart.  She yielded to its influence, and the too natural consequence in a mind unattuned to soft emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian became distasteful to her.  She grew capricious; her gentle conduct towards him was exchanged for asperity and repulsive coldness.  When she perceived the wild or pathetic appeal of his expressive countenance, she would relent, and for a while resume her ancient kindness.  But these fluctuations shook to its depths the soul of the sensitive youth; he no longer deemed the world subject to him, because he possessed Evadne’s love; he felt in every nerve that the dire storms of the mental universe were about to attack his fragile being, which quivered at the expectation of its advent.

Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture that Adrian endured.  She loved him as a kind elder brother; a relation to guide, protect, and instruct her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental authority.  She adored his virtues, and with mixed contempt and indignation she saw Evadne pile drear sorrow on his head, for the sake of one who hardly marked her.  In his solitary despair Adrian would often seek my sister, and in covered terms express his misery, while fortitude and agony divided the throne of his mind.  Soon, alas! was one to conquer.  Anger made no part of his emotion.  With whom should he be angry?  Not with Raymond, who was unconscious of the misery he occasioned; not with Evadne, for her his soul wept tears of blood—­poor, mistaken girl, slave not tyrant was she, and amidst his own anguish he grieved for her future destiny.  Once a writing of his fell into Perdita’s hands; it was blotted with tears—­well might any blot it with the like—­

“Life”—­it began thus—­“is not the thing romance writers describe it; going through the measures of a dance, and after various evolutions arriving at a conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose.  While there is life there is action and change.  We go on, each thought linked to the one which was its parent, each act to a previous act.  No joy or sorrow dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and generating, weaves the chain that make our life: 

  Un dia llama a otro dia
  y ass i llama, y encadena
  llanto a llanto, y pena a pena.