She was gazing on them when a rustle amongst the willows on her left
arrested her attention. Soon the mysterious and almost omnipresent form
of Tyrone stood before her.
"I must away, maiden--Constance!" His voice was mournful as the last
faint sound of the evening bell upon the waters.
"Why art thou here?" She said this in a tone of mingled anxiety and
surprise.
"Here? Too long have I lingered in these woods and around thy dwelling,
Constance. But I must begone--for ever!"
"For ever?" cried the perplexed girl, forgetful of all but the dread
thought of that for ever!
"Ay, for ever? Why should I stay?"
This question, alas! she could not answer, but stood gazing on the dark
water, and on the silver waves which the bright swans had rippled over
the pool. Though she saw them not, yet the scene mingled itself
insensibly with the feelings then swelling in her bosom; and these
recurrent circumstances, in subsequent periods of her existence, never
failed to bring the same dark tide of thought over the soul with vivid
and agonising distinctness.
"Maiden, beware!"
Constance turned towards him:--the moonlight fell on his brow: the dark
curls swept nobly out from their broad shadows twining luxuriantly about
his cheek.
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