the floor, weltering in his blood. They were so shocked at the sight
before them, that they could not return to announce the fatal news, but
instantly dispatched a servant for that purpose. It is more easy to
conceive than describe the consternation such a piece of intelligence was
likely to throw every one into; but the situation of the bride was most
to be pitied; she not only lost a lover just on the point of being her
husband, but fancied that he had received some calumnious information
which caused him to prefer death to the necessity of being united to her.
It was some days before this mystery was cleared up, as it was not until
the seals were broken, that they found the following written paper in his
desk, dated eight days before the fatal catastrophe:--"I adore
Mademoiselle de N----, and shall do so all my life. Her virtues surpassed
if possible her charms; and I would sacrifice the last drop of my blood
rather than cause her the least uneasiness. But the cruel and dangerous
passion of jealousy possesses me to such a degree, that notwithstanding
all her merits, the bare idea of a rival makes me wretched. Every effort
on my part, joined to the voice of reason, has never been able to
eradicate this dreadful poison from my heart, and which I fear is
incurable. If I yield to my penchant for her, and become her husband,
instead of being a tender lover, of which she is so worthy, I should be
a tyrant, whose frenzy would render her more miserable than myself. They
press me to bring our union to a conclusion, they threaten me also with a
rival, who without doubt deserves her more than I. How can I, miserable
wretch that I am, how can I ward off the blow which threatens me? I
flatter myself, at least, to have succeeded in my endeavours to conceal
the vice of a heart which, although entirely her own, can never
exterminate the miserable passion which possesses it. The time approaches
with rapid strides when I must make up my mind. Good Heaven direct me!
shall I risk making her unhappy? Can I resolve to see her the wife of
another? Never, no never! rather let me die a hundred deaths...."

This unfortunate youth had written no more, but it was sufficient to
prove that he had sacrificed himself for the happiness of his mistress.

_Album of Love_.

* * * * *

THE CRUSADER'S SONG.

"Remember the Holy Sepulchre."

Forget the land which gave ye birth--
Forget the womb that bore ye--