she answered. "Look not on me, frail fading flowret," he said, in a hollow mournful tone—"ah look not on me, nor thus waste thy sweets upon a whited sepulchre, full of depravity, and death. Could'st thou read my heart—see how it is seared, thou would'st tremble and start back with horror," "I have bound myself to you," she replied, "I am prepared for the worst: it cannot be worse than the crime of which I am guilty; grieve not then for me, I am calm, and happy—oh most happy, when I am thus with you."
There is a look of anguish, such as a slave might give when he betrays his master—such as a murderer in thought might shew previous to the commission of the bloody act, in presence of his victim:—such a look, so sad, so terrible, impressed a momentary gloom over the beautiful countenance of Glenarvon. Yes, when she said that she was happy, at that very time he shrunk from the joy she
