Hark!--'tis the doom yon glorious
intelligences denounced from that glittering vault, when they proclaimed
my birth!"
He repeated the prediction as aforetime, with a deep, solemn
intonation:--the maiden's blood seemed to curdle with horror. A pause of
bewildering and mysterious terror followed. One brief minute in the
lapse of time,--but an age in the records of thought! Constance, fearful
of looking on the dark billows of the spirit, sought to avert her
glance.
"Thou art an exile, and misfortune prompted me to thy succour; thou hast
won my pity, stranger."
"Beshrew me, 'tis a wary and subtle deceiver, this same casuist love.
Believe him not!" said he, in a burst and agony of soul that made
Constance tremble. "He would lead thee veiled to the very brink of the
precipice, then snatch the shelter from thine eyes and bid thee leap!
Nay, 'tis not pride,--'tis the doom, the curse of my birthright that is
upon me. Maiden! I will but strike to thine heart, and then--poor soul!"
He shuddered; his voice grew tremulous and convulsed. "The stricken one
shall fall. Hark! the hounds are again upon my track!" The
well-practised ear of the hunted fugitive could discern the approach of
footsteps long before they were audible to an ordinary listener:--his
eye and ear seemed on the stretch;--his head bent forward in the same
direction;--he breathed not.
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