"Do not ask me, Nigel, for indeed I know not," she answered, simply,
looking up a moment in his face, in that sweet touching confidence,
which made him draw her closer to his protecting heart; "save that,
perchance, the oppression of nature has extended to me, and filled my
soul with unfounded fancies of evil. I ought to be very happy, Nigel,
loved thus by _thee_," she hid her eyes upon his bosom; "received as thy
promised bride, not alone by thy kind sisters, thy noble brothers,
but--simple-hearted maiden as I am--deemed worthy of thee by good King
Robert's self. Nigel, dearest Nigel, why, in an hour of joy like this,
should dreams of evil come?"

"To whisper, my beloved, that not on earth may we look for the
perfection of joy, the fulness of bliss; that while the mortal shell is
round us joy is chained to pain, and granted us but to lift up the
spirit to that heaven where pain is banished, bliss made perfect;
dearest, 'tis but for this!" answered the young enthusiast, and the rich
yet somewhat mournful tones of his voice thrilled to his listener's
heart.

"Thou speakest as if thou, too, hadst experienced forebodings like to
these, my Nigel," said Agnes, thoughtfully. "I deemed them but the
foolishness of my weaker mind."

"Deem them not foolishness, beloved. There are minds, indeed, that know
them not, but they are of that rude, coarse material which owns no
thought, hath no hopes but those of earth and earthly things, insensible
to that profundity of joy which makes us _feel_ its _chain_: 'tis not to
the lightly feeling such forebodings come."

"But thou--hast thou felt them, Nigel, dearest? hast thou listened to,