word she uttered:—now all hope—now all despondency. As she ceased, the expression hardened into a settled and compulsive resolution.
"It is well!" said he mutteringly, "I am worthy of this—very—very worthy! Generous, noble girl!—had I been an emperor, I would have bowed down to you in worship; but to debase, to degrade you—no! no!"
"Is there debasement in love?" murmured Lucy.
Clifford gazed upon her with a sort of enthusiastic and self-gratulatory pride; perhaps he felt, to be thus loved, and by such a creature, was matter of pride, even in the lowest circumstances to which he could ever be exposed. He drew his breath hard, set his teeth, and answered—
"You could love, then, an outcast, without birth, fortune, or character?—No! you believe this now, but you could not. Could you desert your country, your friends, and your home—all that you are born and fitted for?—Could you attend one over whom the sword hangs, through a life subjected every hour to discovery and disgrace?—Could you be subjected yourself to the
