8. VIII.
One night they walked along the edge of the
precipice, and looked abroad upon the night and
river. The stars were shining in profusion, and
not a breath murmured but harmoniously.
“Tell me,” he said to her, in a sad but gentle
tone, “tell me, Anastasia — do you not tire of
our love, and the solitude to which it dooms you?”
“Not of our love, oh, no! dearest Albert, but
sometimes I feel so lonesome.”
“Yet are you not alone — am I not with you
always? With you, dearest, I have no such feeling.
You are all to me, Anastasia, and I feel no
want when you are absent. Ah! feel like me, I
implore you, my beloved. When you repine
about your solitude, I mourn — I am unhappy.”
“Be not unhappy, Albert — I will repine no
longer. I feel that you are all to me, and wherefore
should I repine for any change that may lose
me all?”
“Wherefore!” he replied — seizing her wrist
with a strong gripe as he pronounced the word
after her, with a singular energy. “Wherefore!
indeed? Repine not, dearest, or you may indeed
lose all!”
“What mean you, Albert?” she demanded,
with some apprehension.
“Look!” he exclaimed; and she beheld, even
as he pointed, where a bright star shot away from
its sphere in erratic flight, bearing along with it a
momentary train of glory, which, as it belonged
to, and came from, the sphere alone, was soon extinguished
upon leaving it.
“Look,” he cried, “look at that star! Be
not weary of thy place of watch and quiet, lest
thou become extinguished also. Thy sphere and
temple are in one heart — thou canst not inhabit
many.”
He paused, and his eye seemed to trace afar
upon its flight the pathway of the vanished star.
She looked at him with anxious apprehension.
His eye seemed rapt in sorrowful contemplation,
and though he shed no tear, the expression was
that of a sublime and subdued sadness. She
threw her arm tenderly around his neck, and she
felt that a thrilling shudder went all through his
frame.
“It grows cold — let us return, my beloved,”
she said to him, fondly.
“Leave me for a while, Anastasia — I will come
to thee soon. Leave me now.”
His words were gently spoken, but she felt that
they were rather a command than a solicitation.
She left him at his bidding; but ere she went, she
threw her arms again about his neck, and sweet
and pure was the kiss given by their mingling lips.
She went towards the castle; but, looking backward
as she went, it seemed to her that she saw a
bright and beautiful star moving across the river
to the crag whereon he stood. At length she beheld
it remain stationary beside him, and the distinct
outline of his person was developed by its
rays. She turned away with a strange terror —
she dared not look again; but hurried onward
with trembling steps to her chamber in the castle.
