, yet the scene mingled itself
insensibly with the feelings then swelling in her bosom; and these
recurrent circumstances, in subsequent periods of her existence, never
failed to bring the same dark tide of thought over the soul with vivid
and agonising distinctness.

"Maiden, beware!"

Constance turned towards him:--the moonlight fell on his brow: the dark
curls swept nobly out from their broad shadows twining luxuriantly about
his cheek. His eyes were fixed on her, with an eagerness and an anguish
in their expression the most absorbing and intense.

"I have loved thee. Ay, if it be love to live whole nights on the memory
of a glance,--on a smile,--on the indelible impress of thy form.
Here,--here! But no living thing that I have loved;--no being that e'er
looked on me with kindliness and favour, that has not been marked out
for destruction. Oh, that those eyes had ne'er looked upon me! Thou wert
happy, and I have lingered on thy footstep till I have dragged thee to
the same gulph where all hope--all joy that e'er stole in upon my dark
path, must perish."

"Oh! do not foretaste thy misery thus," cried Constance. "The cruel
sufferings thou hast undergone make thee apprehensive of evil. But how
can _thy_ fate control my destiny?"

"How, I know not," said Tyrone, "save that it shall bring the same
clouds, in unmitigated darkness, about thy path. Dost thou love me? Nay,
start not. Stay not!" cried he, making way for the maiden to pass. But
Constance seemed unable to move,--terrified and speechless.

"Perchance, thou knowest it not, but thou wouldest love me as a woman
loves;--ay, beyond even the verge and extremity of hope! Even now the
poison rankles in thy bosom. Hark!--'tis the doom yon glorious
intelligences denounced from that glittering vault, when they proclaimed
my birth!"

He repeated the prediction as aforetime, with a deep, solemn
intonation:--the maiden's blood seemed to curdle with horror. A pause of
bewildering and mysterious terror followed. One brief minute in the
lapse of time,--but an age in the records of thought! Constance, fearful
of looking on the dark billows of the spirit, sought to avert her
glance.

"Thou art an exile, and misfortune prompted me to thy succour; thou hast
won my pity, stranger."

"Beshrew me, 'tis a wary and subtle deceiver, this same casuist love.
Believe him not!" said he, in a burst and agony of soul that made
Constance tremble. "He would lead thee veiled to the very