of the sire. Still it was a comfort and a soothing, even to look upon the
placid heaven, and form a conjecture as to the language of its stars.
And, above all, while she questioned the future, she thought only of her
lover. But day after day passed--no letter, or worse than none; and at
length Lucilla became utterly impatient of all rest: a nervous fever
possessed her; the extreme solitude of the place filled her with that
ineffable sensation of irritability which sometimes preludes the madness
that has been produced in criminals by solitary confinement.

On the day that she wrote that letter to Godolphin which I have
transcribed, this painful tension of the nerves was more than hitherto
acute. She longed to fly somewhere; nay, once or twice, she remembered
that Rome was easily gained, that she might be there as expeditiously as
her letter. Although in that letter only we have signified that Lucilla
had expressed her wish for Godolphin's return; yet, in all her later
letters, she had (perhaps, more timidly) urged that desire. But they had
not taken the same hold on Godolphin; nor, while he was playing with his
danger, had they produced the same energetic resolution. Lucilla could
not, however, hope with much reason that the success of her present letter
would be greater than that of her former ones; and, at all events, she did
not anticipate an immediate compliance with her prayers. She looked
forward to some excuses, and to some delay. We cannot, therefore, wonder
that she felt a growing desire to follow her own epistle to Rome; and
although she had been prevented before, and still drew back from
absolutely favoring and enforcing the idea, by the fear of Godolphin's
displeasure; yet she trusted enough to his gentleness of character to feel
sure that the displeasure could scarcely be lasting. Still the step was
bold, and Lucilla loved devotedly enough to be timid; and besides, her
inexperience made her look upon the journey as a far more formidable
expedition than it really was.