ntoinette, she approached Philip
and said:

"Do not speak thus, Philip. To-day, God declares His will to you.
Unintentionally, I was an obstacle to the fulfilment of the vows you had
made. God recalls me to Him. You long to die with me, you say. You must
not die, you must live, for your life belongs to one who has put her
trust in you. Your life belongs to her, and your name; and no one is
more worthy than Antoinette to bear your name."

Philip passionately interrupted her:

"I am no saint, I am a man! Why do you talk to me of promises and of
duty? Whatever I may have said, whatever I may have promised, if I have
not told you that I loved you, if I have not told you that I should
always love you, I have lied. Read my--heart; you will behold your name,
your name alone, written there; and tell me, courageous creature,
noble-hearted woman, how can one stifle the aspirations of a love which
has been the only joy, the only torment of one's life? Remember the
past, Dolores--our childhood, the blissful existence in which love was
first awakened in our hearts. I do not know what was passing in yours;
but mine has nourished but one thought, cherished but one hope: to
belong to you and to possess you. Upon this hope have I lived. It has
been the strength and the weakness of my life; its deepest sorrow and
its purest joy."

While he was thus speaking in low tones that he might not be overheard,
Antoinette, after exchanging a few remarks with Coursegol, approached
them. Not a single word uttered by Philip had escaped her, and her
terror-stricken eyes and drawn features betrayed her agony.

"Was this dream of mine so unutterably wild and hopeless?" continued
Philip, not perceiving Antoinette, and refusing to heed Dolores' warning
sign. "Does a man display a culpable ambition when he longs for a calm
and happy life with an adored wife who is worthy of him? And yet, the
first time I spoke of this love, you said to me: 'Antoinette loves you;
marry her;' and when I still pleaded, you added: 'I belong to God.'"

"Was this not the truth?" asked Dolores, timidly.

"No, for you loved me and you sacrificed yourself for the sake of some
foolish scheme upon the accomplishment of which my father would not have
insisted if, sustained by you, I had ventured to confess the truth. You
would not consent to this; you left us: then, Providence once more
brought us face to face. This time, you granted me a hope only to take
it from me again whe