e arching vines gleamed a
face that might well have seemed the nymph, the goddess of the scene.

"My beautiful! my Irene!--how shall I thank thee!"

It was long before the delighted lover suffered himself to observe upon
Irene's face a sadness that did not usually cloud it in his presence.
Her voice, too, trembled; her words seemed constrained and cold.

"Have I offended thee?" he asked; "or what less misfortune hath
occurred?"

Irene raised her eyes to her lover's, and said, looking at him
earnestly, "Tell me, my Lord, in sober and simple truth, tell me, would
it grieve thee much were this to be our last meeting?"

Paler than the marble at his feet grew the dark cheek of Adrian. It was
some moments ere he could reply, and he did so then with a forced smile
and a quivering lip.

"Jest not so, Irene! Last!--that is not a word for us!"

"But hear me, my Lord--"

"Why so cold?--call me Adrian!--friend!--lover! or be dumb!"

"Well, then, my soul's soul! my all of hope! my life's life!" exclaimed
Irene, passionately, "hear me! I fear that we stand at this moment upon
some gulf whose depth I see not, but which may divide us for ever! Thou
knowest the real nature of my brother, and dost not misread him as many
do. Long has he planned, and schemed, and communed with himself, and,
feeling his way amidst the people, prepared the path to some great
design. But now--(thou wilt not betray--thou wilt not injure him?--he is
thy friend!)"

"And thy brother! I would give my life for his! Say on!"

"But now, then," resumed Irene, "the time for that enterprise, whatever
it be, is coming fast. I know not of its exact nature, but I know that
it is against the nobles--against thy order--against thy house itself!
If it succeed--oh, Adrian! thou thyself mayst not be free from danger;
and my name, at least, will be coupled with the name of thy foes. If it
fail,--my brother, my bold brother, is swept away! He will fall a victim
to revenge or justice, call it as you will. Your kinsman may be his
judge--his executioner; and I--even if I should yet live to mourn over
the boast and glory of my humble line--could I permit myself to love,
to see, one in whose veins flowed the blood of his destroyer? Oh! I am
wretched--wretched! these thoughts make me well-nigh mad!" and, wringing
her hands bitterly, Irene sobbed aloud.

Adrian himself was struck forcibly by the picture thus presented to
him, although the alternative it embraced had often