object, and deeply buried in his own reflections, inquiet as the murderer who meditates his first deed of blood: and the stars of evening found him once more at the appointed spot. At midnight the sorcerer was there also.
“Hast thou yet maturely deliberated?” enquired he, “as on the preceding night?”
“On what should I deliberate?” returned Walter impatiently. “I need not to deliberate: what I demand of thee, is that which thou hast promised me—that which will prove my bliss. Or dost thou but mock me? if so, hence from my sight, lest I be tempted to lay my hand on thee.”
“Once more do I warn thee,” answered the old man with undisturbed composure, ‘wake not the dead’—let her rest.”
“Aye, but not in the cold grave: she shall rather rest on this bosom which burns with eagerness to clasp her.”
“Reflect, thou may’st not quit her until death, even though aversion and horror should seize thy heart. There would then remain only one horrible means.”
