pid moonshine. Involuntarily I seized Lilian's hand, and
drew her away almost by force, for she was unwilling to move, and as
I led her back, she turned her head to look round; I, too, turned in
jealous rage! I breathed more freely. Margrave had disappeared!

"How came he there? It is not his hotel. Whose house is it?" I said
aloud, though speaking to myself.

Lilian remained silent, her eyes fixed upon the ground as if in deep
revery. I took her band; it did not return my pressure. I felt cut to
the heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so frankly
cordial. I stopped short: "Lilian, what is this? you are chilled towards
me. Can the mere sound of that man's voice, the mere glimpse of that
man's face, have--" I paused; I did not dare to complete my question.

Lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and I saw at once in those eyes a
change. Their look was cold; not haughty, but abstracted. "I do not
understand you," she said, in a weary, listless accent. "It is growing
late; I must go in."

So we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand. Then it
occurred to me that, the next day, Lilian would be in that narrow world
of society; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of Margrave, to
meet, to know him. Jealousy seized me with all its imaginary terrors,
and amidst that jealousy, a nobler, purer apprehension for herself.
Had I been Lilian's brother instead of her betrothed, I should not have
trembled less to foresee the shadow of Margrave's mysterious influence
passing over a mind so predisposed to the charm which Mystery itself
has for those whose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies, whose world
melts away into Dreamland. Therefore I spoke.

"Lilian, at the risk of offending you-alas! I have never done so before
this night--I must address to you a prayer which I implore you not to
regard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthy you and myself. The person
whom you have just heard and seen is, at present, much courted in the
circles of this town. I entreat you not to permit any one to introduce
him to you. I entreat you not to know him. I cannot tell you all my
reasons for this petition; enough that I pledge you my honour that those
reasons are grave. Trust, then, in my truth, as I trust in yours. Be
assured that I stretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed
upon mine in the promise I ask, as I shall be freed from all fear by a
promise which I know will be sacred when once it is giv