e had
never loved before.

"And couldst thou not leave thy mountains?" he whispered, as he drew yet
nearer to her.

"Dost thou ask me?" she said, retreating, and looking him steadfastly
in the face. "Dost thou know what we daughters of the mountains are? You
gay, smooth cavaliers of cities seldom mean what you speak. With you,
love is amusement; with us, it is life. Leave these mountains! Well! I
should not leave my nature."

"Keep thy nature ever,--it is a sweet one."

"Yes, sweet while thou art true; stern, if thou art faithless. Shall I
tell thee what I--what the girls of this country are? Daughters of men
whom you call robbers, we aspire to be the companions of our lovers or
our husbands. We love ardently; we own it boldly. We stand by your side
in danger; we serve you as slaves in safety: we never change, and we
resent change. You may reproach, strike us, trample us as a dog,--we
bear all without a murmur; betray us, and no tiger is more relentless.
Be true, and our hearts reward you; be false, and our hands revenge!
Dost thou love me now?"

During this speech the Italian's countenance had most eloquently aided
her words,--by turns soft, frank, fierce,--and at the last question she
inclined her head humbly, and stood, as in fear of his reply, before
him. The stern, brave, wild spirit, in which what seemed unfeminine
was yet, if I may so say, still womanly, did not recoil, it rather
captivated Glyndon. He answered readily, briefly, and freely,
"Fillide,--yes!"

Oh, "yes!" forsooth, Clarence Glyndon! Every light nature answers "yes"
lightly to such a question from lips so rosy! Have a care,--have a care!
Why the deuce, Mejnour, do you leave your pupil of four-and-twenty to
the mercy of these wild cats-a-mountain! Preach fast, and abstinence,
and sublime renunciation of the cheats of the senses! Very well in
you, sir, Heaven knows how many ages old; but at four-and-twenty, your
Hierophant would have kept you out of Fillide's way, or you would have
had small taste for the Cabala.

And so they stood, and talked, and vowed, and whispered, till the girl's
mother made some noise within the house, and Fillide bounded back to the
distaff, her finger once more on her lip.

"There is more magic in Fillide than in Mejnour," said Glyndon to
himself, walking gayly home; "yet on second thoughts, I know not if I
quite so well like a character so ready for revenge. But he who has the
real secret can baffle even the vengea