her now. She does not cry the cry of ordinary maidens in like cases.
While the struggle went on her tender face was brave; but, alas! Omens
are against her: she holds an ever-present dreadful one on that fatal
fourth finger of hers, which has coiled itself round her dream of
delight, and takes her in its clutch like a horrid serpent. And yet she
must love it. She dares not part from it. She must love and hug it, and
feed on its strange honey, and all the bliss it gives her casts all the
deeper shadow on what is to come.

Say: Is it not enough to cause feminine apprehension, for a woman to be
married in another woman's ring?

You are amazons, ladies, at Saragossa, and a thousand citadels--wherever
there is strife, and Time is to be taken by the throat. Then shall few
men match your sublime fury. But what if you see a vulture, visible only
to yourselves, hovering over the house you are gaily led by the torch to
inhabit? Will you not crouch and be cowards?

As for the hero, in the hour of victory he pays no heed to omens. He
does his best to win his darling to confidence by caresses. Is she not
his? Is he not hers? And why, when the battle is won, does she weep?
Does she regret what she has done?

Oh, never! never! her soft blue eyes assure him, steadfast love seen
swimming on clear depths of faith in them, through the shower.

He is silenced by her exceeding beauty, and sits perplexed waiting for
the shower to pass.

Alone with Mrs. Berry, in her bedroom, Lucy gave tongue to her distress,