Oh! if the dear and only loved
Might by some magic art appear,
Though on his mouth the wolfs blood hung,
My lips should kiss its beauty clear!
Though round his hand a serpent's coil
Envious, had twined its venom'd ring,
Would not all-powerful love defy
The danger of the reptile's sting!

Why lacks the wind a fervent soul
Like that which glows within my breast?
Why lives not language in its sigh?
Then could it speed my fond request!
Then, truant, then the whisp'ring breeze
Thy thoughts might interchange with mine;
And, faithful carrier, swiftly bear
The throbbings of this heart to thine!

'Poor maiden!' sighed Arwed with fearful misgivings. 'God grant that
the man thy heart has chosen, drip only with the blood of the wolf,
that the serpents of hell be not coiled around the hand which thou
wouldst press so tenderly in thine!'

Meanwhile Christine, having ended her song, listened a moment, and then
turning towards the thicket, exclaimed, 'tease me no longer, Mac
Donalbain, it is you--I hear your breathing.'

'The lover hears acutely, but not always rightly,' said Arwed
advancing. 'It is only the breathing of your insignificant kinsman.'

'My God, what have I done!' shrieked the terrified Christine, covering
her face with her hands.

'Lost the secret,' answered Arwed 'that you once promised to confide to
me. I am indebted to accident for what I now know, and not to your
confidence.'

'Can that be any excuse for your betraying me?' asked Christine,
grasping his hand and searching deeply into his soul with her beautiful
blue eyes.

'Do I look like a betrayer?' asked Arwed, indignantly withdrawing his
hand. 'The knowledge of what I only conjectured till now, at least
authorises me to exercise the fraternal right which you have conceded
to me, and earnestly to warn you against this Scot, who, by the mildest
judgment, is only an adventurer. Even if the garb in which you have
to-day so strangely clothed yourself did actually belong to you, you
could not hope to derive any especial honor from such a connection; the
countess Gyllenstierna degrades her rank and reputation when she throws
herself away upon a suspected vagabond.'

'Then cast I from me both rank and reputation,' cried the maiden, with
the defiance of desperation, '