, I am the wife of the foreigner. Thou canst regain
me only in the land of spirits; but the way is short--look! it is only
the length of thy sword!'

The word 'wife' falls from the soft lips like a stone on the heart of
the chief, awakening him from the last dream he will ever dream on this
earth. Yes. His sword would protect her from the pursuit of father and
husband, but he cannot save her from the condemnation of the church, its
excommunication; for what the priest of God has bound, that man may not
unloose! It grows cold and dark in his sinking heart. A single moment of
happiness, alas, now forever past! has robbed him of strength, of hope;
he shivers with awe; he sees the long skeleton finger of the pale
Phantom of Terror touch the young heart of the faithful maiden. But
_that_ will be impossible--he cannot take her life--he will fly, and
fall on the morrow with his braves in battle--she shall live--the
loveliest of human forms shall still remain on earth. He groans, and
breaks away from her--the walls seem crumbling before him, breaking into
tears of blood--he flies--but his sister overtakes him at the
threshold.

'Where dost thou fly, unfaithful? Didst thou not come to release me?
Wouldst thou brand me with dishonor--with infamy and shame? Betray me
not. O God! canst thou think of deserting me now! Listen! The foreigner
is already on his way to sully with his hot and pestilential breath the
purity of thy beloved. And what would be my future fate shouldst thou
deliver me into the hands of mine enemy, to his hated embraces? He will
force me to the court of the King of the South. I must there bear my
part amid strange faces, surrounded by falsehood and pride, and learn to
smile on those I loathe. He will lead me to the court that he may boast
of my beauty, that he may show his king he has gathered the pale flower
of the ancient House. And what will be the course of the king, what that
of the prince, my husband? Look at the old, and learn! They curse in old
age what they worshipped in youth; they love what they once scorned.
What has thus transformed them? Time. Time, the murderer, who in his
reckless culture plants fresh roses on the ruined wall, will draw and
thicken the veil of delusion over my face until my true features shall
be stifled behind it. I shall be utterly alone--alone forever! Thou wilt
be afar, on the mountains, rocks, or in the deserts; temptation will
surround me, and disgust possess my soul. Thou