ng first enquired how he was:--"You are deceived, my lord; in
coming to see you I do nothing that most of my countrywomen would not do
in my place. I knew you were ill--you are a stranger here--you know
nobody but me; it is therefore my duty to take care of you. Were it
otherwise, ought not established forms to yield to those real and
profound sentiments, which the danger or the grief of a friend give
birth to? What would be the fate of a woman if the rules of social
propriety, permitting her to love, forbade that irresistible emotion
which makes us fly to succour the object of our affection? But I repeat
to you, my lord, you need not be afraid that I have compromised myself
by coming hither. My age and my talents allow me, at Rome, the same
liberty as a married woman. I do not conceal from my friends that I am
come to see you. I know not whether they blame me for loving you; but
that fact admitted, I am certain that they do not think me culpable in
devoting myself entirely to you."

On hearing these words, so natural and so sincere, Oswald experienced a
confused medley of different feelings. He was moved with the delicacy of
Corinne's answer; but he was almost vexed that his first impression was
not just. He could have wished that she had committed some great fault
in the eyes of the world, in order that this very fault, imposing upon
him the duty of marrying her, might terminate his indecision. He was
offended at this liberty of manners in Italy, which prolonged his
anxiety by allowing him so much happiness, without annexing to it any
condition. He could have wished that honour had commanded what he
desired, and these painful thoughts produced new and dangerous effects.
Corinne, notwithstanding the dreadful alarm she was in, lavished upon
him the most soothing attentions.

Towards the evening, Oswald appeared more oppressed; and Corinne, on her
knees by the side of his bed, supported his head in her arms, though she
was herself racked with more internal pain than he. This tender and
affecting care made a gleam of pleasure visible through his
sufferings.--"Corinne," said he to her, in a low voice, "read in this
volume, which contains the thoughts of my father, his reflections on
death. Do not think," he continued, seeing the terror of Corinne; "that
I feel myself menaced with it. But I am never ill without reading over
these consoling reflections. I then fancy that I hear them from his own
mouth; besides, my love, I w