It was nearly
midnight; but still he walked back and forth in his room with
thoughtful brow. There was none of the nervous irritation in his
manner that was evinced by his rival; but there was deep and anxious
solicitude written in every line of his handsome features. He was
thinking of Isabella. Was thinking of her, did we say? He had never
forgotten her for one hour since the last farewell meeting in the
prison walls. He knew not how she felt towards him now-whether a new
pride might not take the place of that which had before actuated
her, and a fear lest she should, by acknowledging, as it were, the
former error, be led still to observe towards him the same austere
manner and distance.
"Have I won renown, promotion, and extended fame to no purpose, at
last?" he asked himself; "what care I for these unless shared in by
her; unless her beautiful eyes approve, and her sweet lips
acknowledge? Alas, how poor a thing am I, whom my fellow-mortals
count so fortunate and happy!"
Thus he mused to himself, until at last stepping to the open balcony
window, he looked out upon the soft and delicious light of it
tropical moon. All was still-all was beautiful; the steady pace of
the sentinel on duty at the entrance of the palace, alone, sounding
upon the ear.
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