, like the cloud passing from the sun. Her eye is fired by a new
expression. I know it well. I have seen it before; not in her eyes,
but in those that resemble them: the eyes of her sister. I know it
well. It is the light of love!

Saint Vrain! His, too, are lit by a similar emotion! Happy Saint
Vrain! Happy that it is mutual. As yet he knows not that, but I do. I
could bless him with a single word.

Moments pass. Their eyes mingle in fiery communion. They gaze into
each other. Neither can avert their glance. A god rules them: the god
of love!

The proud and energetic attitude of the girl gradually forsakes her; her
features relax; her eye swims with a softer expression; and her whole
bearing seems to have undergone a change.

She sinks down upon a bench. She leans against the parapet. She no
longer turns to the west. She no longer gazes upon the Mimbres. Her
heart is no longer in the desert land!

No; it is with her eyes, and these rest almost continuously on Saint
Vrain. They wander at intervals over the stones of the azotea; then her
thoughts do not go with them; but they ever return to the same object,
to gaze upon it tenderly, more tenderly at each new glance.

The anguish of captivity is over. She no longer desires to escape.
There is no prison where he dwells. It is now a paradise. Henceforth
the doors may be thrown freely open. That little bird will make no
further effort to fly from its cage. It is tamed.

What memory, friendship, entreaties, had tailed to effect, love had
accomplished in a single instant. Love, mysterious power, in one
pulsation had transformed that wild heart; had drawn it from the desert.

I fancied that Seguin had noticed all this, for he was observing her
movements with attention. I fancied that such thoughts were passing in
his mind, and that they were not unpleasing to him, for he looked less
afflicted than before. But I did not continue to watch the scene. A
deeper interest summoned me aside; and, obedient to the sweet impulse, I
strayed towards the southern angle of the azotea.

I was not alone. My betrothed was by my side; and our hands, like our
hearts, were locked in each other.

There was no secrecy about our love; with Zoe there never had been.

Nature had prompted the passion. She knew not the conventionalities of
the world, of society, of circles refined, soi-disant. She knew not
that love was a passion for one to be ashamed of.

Hith