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fect bliss on earth, 'tis his lot alone who becomes that angel's husband."
While his fancy coined these ideas, he paced his cell with a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: his head reclined upon his shoulder: a tear rolled down his cheek, while he reflected that the vision of happiness for him could never be realized.
"She is lost to me;" he continued, "by marriage she cannot be mine: and to seduce such innocence, to use the confidence reposed in me to work her ruin———Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed! Fear not, lovely girl! your virtue runs no risque from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of remorse."
Again he paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignation from the wall: he threw it on the ground, and spurned it from him with his foot.
The
