a brave and generous man,
and to wade through that red stream to success and fame? Believe me, Mr.
Bernard, when you come to die, the recollection of such an act will be
sweeter to your soul than all the honour and glory which an admiring
posterity could heap above your cold, insensate ashes. If I am any thing
to you; if my happiness would be an object of interest to your heart;
and if my love, my life-long love, would be worthy of your acceptance,
they are yours. Forgive the boldness, the freedom with which I have
spoken. It may be unbecoming in a young girl, but let it be another
proof of the depth, the sincerity of my feelings, when I can forget a
maiden's delicacy in the earnestness of my plea."

It was impossible not to be moved with the earnest and touching manner
of the weeping girl, as with clasped hands and streaming eyes, she
almost knelt to Bernard in the fervent earnestness of her feelings.
Machiavellian as he was, and accustomed to disguise his heart, the young
man was for a moment almost dissuaded from his design. Taking Virginia
gently by the hand, he begged her to be calm. But the feeling of
generosity which for a moment gleamed on his heart, like a brief sunbeam
on a stormy day, gave way to the wonted selfishness with which that
heart was clouded.

"And can you still cling with such tenacity to a man who has proven
himself so unworthy of you," he said; "to one who has long since
sacrificed you to his own fanatical purposes. Even should he escape the
fate which awaits him, he can never be yours. Your own independence of
feeling, your father's prejudices, every thing conspires to prevent a
union so unnatural. Hansford may live, but he can never live to be your
husband."

"Who empowered you to prohibit thus boldly the bans between us, and to
dissolve our plighted troth?" said Virginia, with indignation.

"You again mistake me," replied Bernard. "God forbid that I should thus
intrude upon what surely concerns me not. I only expressed, my dear
friend, what you know full well, that whatever be the fate of Major
Hansford, you can never marry him. Why, then, this strange interest in
his fate?"

"And can you think thus of woman's love? Can you suppose that her heart
is so selfish that, because her own cherished hopes are blasted, she can
so soon forget and coldly desert one who has first awakened those sweet
hopes, and who is now in peril? Believe me, Mr. Bernard, dear as I hold
that object to my soul, sad