O, say when I may come to you,
when look once more into those radiant eyes, when tell you with my
lips how dearly, how ardently I love you-have ever loved you, and
must still love you to the last? I know you will forgive the
impetuosity, and, perhaps, incoherent character of this note.
LORENZO BEZAN."
We have only to look into the chamber of Isabella Gonzales, a few
hours subsequent to the writing of this letter, to learn its effect
upon her.
She was alone; the letter she had read over and over again, and now
sat with it pressed to her bosom by both hands, as though she might
thus succeed in suppressing the convulsive sobs that shook her whole
frame. Tears, the luxury of both joy and sorrow, where the heart is
too full of either, tears streamed down her fair cheeks; tears of
joy and sorrow both; joy that he was indeed still true to her, and
sorrow that such hours, days, nay, years of unhappiness, had been
thus needlessly passed, while they were separated from each other,
though joined in soul. O, how bitterly she recalled her pride, and
remembered the control it had held over her, how blamed herself at
the recollection of that last farewell in the prison with the noble
but dejected spirit that in spite of herself even then she loved!
She kissed the letter again and again; she wept like a child!
"The queen was right-he had no heart to give.
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