"Elgiva! you shall never go--never, never--it will break my heart."

"It will break mine; but better hearts should break than that civil war
should desolate our country, or that you should be dethroned."

"No more of this, Elgiva; you shall not go, I swear it! come weal or
woe. Are we not man and wife? Have we not ever been faithful to each other?"

"But this dreadful Church, my Edwy, which crushes men's affections and
rules their intellects with a giant's strength more fearful than the
fabled hammer of Thor. It crushed the sweet mythology of old, with all
that ministered to love, and substituted the shaveling, the nun, the
monk; it has no sympathy with poor hearts like ours; it is remorseless,
as though it never knew pity or fear. You must yield, my Edwy! we must
yield!"

"I cannot," he said; "we will fly the throne together."

"But where would you go? this Church is everywhere; who would receive an
excommunicate man?"

"I cannot help it, Elgiva; say no more, it maddens me. Talk of our early
days, before this dark shadow fell upon us."

She took up her harp, as if, like David, she could thereby soothe the
perturbed spirit; but its sweet sounds woke no answer in his breast, and
so the night came upon them--night upon the earth, night upon their souls.

Early in the morning she rose, strong in a woman's affection, while Edwy
yet slept, and hastily arrayed herself; she looked around at her poor