CHAPTER XV.

"Yet again methinks
Some unknown sorrow, ripe in Future's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles. At something it grieves
More than the parting with my lord."

SHAKSPEARE.


Long did Marie Morales linger where her husband had left her after his
strangely passionate farewell. His tone, his look, his embrace haunted
her almost to pain--all were so unlike his wonted calmness: her full
heart so yearned towards him that she would have given worlds, if she
had had them, to call him to her side once more--to conjure him again
to forgive and assure her of his continued trust--to tell him she was
happy, and asked no other love than his. Why had he left her so early?
when she felt as if she had so much to say--so much to confide. And
then her eye caught the same ominous cloud which had so strangely
riveted Don Ferdinand's gaze, and a sensation of awe stole over her,
retaining her by the casement as by some spell which she vainly strove
to resist; until the forked lightnings began to illumine the murky
gloom, and the thunder rolled awfully along. Determined not to give
way to the heavy depression creeping over her, Marie summoned her
attendants, and strenuously sought to keep up an animated conversation
as they worked. Not expecting to see her husband till the ensuing
morning, she retired to rest at the first partial lull of the storm,