“Damnation!” cried Edmund, starting up fiercely: “she did not, surely she could not, say that?”
“Indeed she did, my lord.”
“Then may ten thousand curses light upon me if I forgive her! Pardon of that wretch! my slave! my prisoner! no, sooner would I expire in horrid torments—sooner be torn asunder by wild beasts.—Pardon of that boy!—oh! she could not mean it.”
Whilst Edmund thus raved, Father Morris and Rosabella watched his torments with much of the same coolness, as a French philosopher would those of an unfortunate animal upon which he was trying experiments. No feeling of compassion entered their souls, and they only waited to see the effect their words would produce. It may easily be perceived that the whole scene which Father Morris related as having passed between him and Elvira, was a fabrication; but Lord Edmund saw not this, for jealousy often throws a veil over the eyes of its victims, which gives a delusive colouring to everything they see. Thus, Lord Edmund believed every word the father uttered, and his whole frame trembled with agitation as he paced the room with hasty strides. At last, he threw himself upon a chair—“Beg his pardon!” exclaimed he: “Oh Elvira! Elvira!” and he hid his face in his hands, whilst the big tears trickled through his fingers, and Lord Edmund, the stern, courageous soldier, the philosopher, the hero, and the statesman, wept, actually wept, like a feeble child.
“Oh Edmund!” exclaimed Rosabella, approaching him, and taking his hand—“I cannot bear to see you in distress. Would to Heaven that by the sacrifice even of my life I could relieve you!”
“Rosabella, you will drive me to distraction.”
“Not for worlds, Edmund; on the contrary, were I mistress of worlds, I would cast them at your feet.”
“I know it—I know it; but spare me now.”
“Spare you, Edmund! Spare what? spare my reproaches, mean you? Alas! you need not fear them. Am I not devoted to you? Is it not for your sake that I have thus passed the boundaries of my sex? Are you disgusted with my boldness? But no: you will surely forgive me, for my only motive has been to save you, and my only hope of happiness is bound up in yours.”
“Rosabella!” repeated Edmund, “I believe that you love me.”
“Love you! Oh heavens! can you doubt my love?”
“I do not doubt it, and this last action proves it more than words. I have long done you injustice; can you forgive me, Rosabella?”
“Oh Edmund!” exclaimed the princess, whilst her full heart heaved almost to bursting and the tears streamed down her face.
“I have been the victim of infatuation,” continued Edmund; “I have loved a false, ungrateful woman, who has betrayed me. But I see my folly; and if tears of penitence shed at your feet can earn my pardon—if you will accept a broken, bleeding heart—”
“Oh Edmund!” interrupted Rosabella, throwing herself into his arms, “say no more—I am yours—yours forever—your devoted slave—”
“Not my slave, Rosabella,” said Edmund, gently disengaging her from him, and placing her upon a chair, “but my wife, my beloved wife.”
“Your wife!” exclaimed Rosabella, “Edmund’s wife! am I indeed so blessed? Oh no! surely it is a dream, a fond delusive dream! You cannot surely be serious.”
“Is this a moment for jesting?” asked Edmund calmly.
“It certainly is not,” said Father Morris, whose agitation had been nearly equal to their own, and who had stood gazing upon them with looks of the fondest affection. “We must immediately escape, or it will be too late; it wants but two hours of daybreak, and, with the dawn, Lord Edmund’s trial will commence.”
“True, true!” cried Rosabella, “I had forgotten. Dearest Edmund, you must condescend to fly, or your precious life will be sacrificed.”
“But how shall I escape?”
“Through this panel. A balloon waits at a little distance, and this cloak will conceal your person from observation.”
“Dear Rosabella!”
“Come, come,” cried Father Morris, “we have no time to lose. Though Ferdinand was acquitted you must fall, for the state requires a victim.”
Lord Edmund waited for no more; the name of Ferdinand was torture to him; and, hastily disencumbering himself of his chains, he followed the father and Rosabella from the prison. He sighed, however, and looked back for a moment with regret ere he quitted the outer walls, for he thought of Elvira. Rosabella’s quick ear caught the sigh and her subtle spirit divined its meaning; but this was not a moment to complain, and stepping into their balloon they were soon out of sight of London. They proceeded to a palace of Rosabella’s a few miles out of town, and there, the following day, Edmund became her husband.
In the meantime, the excessive agitation Elvira experienced on the day of Prince Ferdinand’s trial brought on a return of her fever, and it was several weeks ere she was sufficiently recovered to leave her bed. When she did so, however, she was really shocked at the state in which she found her kingdom. When she first began to reign, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, she had taken too much of the executive part of the government upon herself; and as her illness had been too sudden to allow her to appoint a regency, no one knew who ought to supply her place. All therefore was confusion and disorder, and Elvira shrunk disgusted from the chaos before her. She had now no Edmund to smooth the way for her, and the native energy of her mind was gone. Pale, heartbroken, and dispirited, she felt languid and
