king a clew to her conduct. "This is too
much!" cried she, half soliloquizing. "Love cannot stand this! Love!
away with the word--I would despise myself if I could find a spark of
this love in my heart!" She pressed her hands to her breast, as if she
wished thereby to extinguish the flames which were consuming her "Oh!"
she cried, "it burns fearfully, but it is not love! Hate, too, has
its fires. I hate him! I know it now--I hate him, and I will have
vengeance on the traitor! I will show him that I scorn him!" Like an
infuriated tigress she darted at the myrtle-wreath which lay on the
table. "The bond of love is broken, and I will destroy it as I do this
wreath!" she exclaimed, wildly; but suddenly a gentle hand was laid
upon her extended arm, and Bertram's soft and sympathizing voice
sounded in her ear.

What he said, what words he used--he who now understood all, and
perceived the fulness of her grief--with what sincere, heart-born
words he sought to comfort her, she neither knew nor understood. But
she heard his voice; she knew that a sympathizing friend stood at
her side, ready to offer a helping hand to save her from misery, and
faithfully to draw her to his breast. She would have been lost, she
would have gone crazy, if Bertram had not stood at her side. She felt
it--she knew it. Whenever she had been threatened with calamity, he
was always near, to watch and shield, to afford her peace and comfort.

"Bertram! Bertram!" she cried, trembling in every limb, "protect me.
Do not shut me out from your heart! have pity on me!" She leaned her
head on his breast and wept aloud. Now, in her sorrow, she felt it to
be a blessing that he was present, and for the first time she had
a clear consciousness that God had sent him to her to be a helping
friend, a guardian angel.

The illusions and errors of her whole life fell from before her eyes
like a veil, and she saw in a clear light both herself and Bertram.
And now, as she leaned her head upon his breast, her thoughts became
prayers, and her tears thank-offerings. "I have entertained an angel
unawares," said she, remembering, unintentionally, the language of
Holy Writ. When Bertram asked the meaning of her words, she answered,
"They mean that an erring heart has found the right road home."

She wiped away her tears with her long locks. She would no longer
weep, nor shed a single tear for the false, intriguing traitor, the
degenerate scion of a degenerate race. He was not