only through her present sufferings
that she hoped for any relief to the stings of conscience; that, in her
state of mind, diseased as he might think it, the necessity of occupation
was salutary medicine; she ended by extorting a promise that for the space
of one month he would refrain from the discussion of her interests,
engaging after that time to yield in part to his wishes. She could not
disguise to herself that any change would separate her from him; now she
saw him each day. His connection with Adrian and Perdita was never
mentioned; he was to her a meteor, a companionless star, which at its
appointed hour rose in her hemisphere, whose appearance brought felicity,
and which, although it set, was never eclipsed. He came each day to her
abode of penury, and his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with
sweets, radiant with heaven's own light; he partook of her delirium. "They
built a wall between them and the world"--Without, a thousand harpies
raved, remorse and misery, expecting the destined moment for their
invasion. Within, was the peace as of innocence, reckless blindless,
deluding joy, hope, whose still anchor rested on placid but unconstant
water.

Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power and fame, while he
looked forward to entire dominion over the elements and the mind of man,
the territory of his own heart escaped his notice; and from that unthought
of source arose the mighty torrent that overwhelmed his will, and carried
to the oblivious sea, fame, hope, and happiness.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN the mean time what did Perdita?

During the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond and she had been
inseparable; each project was discussed with her, each plan approved by
her. I never beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister. Her
expressive eyes were two stars whose beams were love; hope and
light-heartedness sat on her cloudless brow. She fed even to tears of joy
on the praise and glory of her Lord; her whole existence was one sacrifice
to him, and if in the humility of her heart she felt self-complacency, it
arose from the reflection that she had won the distinguished hero of the
age, and had for years preserved him, even after time had taken from love
its usual nourishment. Her own feeling was as entire as at its birth. Five
years had failed to destroy the dazzling unreality of passion. Most men
ruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which the female heart is wont to