Her
heart was wrung with anguish. She was ready to charge the immortals with
conspiring against her, had not her piety forbad it. She saw the reality
of what Roderic stated, and yet she was ready to charge him with raising
eternal obstacles. She cast upon him a look of despair and agony. But
she did not read in the countenance of the imaginary shepherd congenial
sentiments. "Methinks," said she, with a voice full of reproachful
blandishment, and inimitable sweetness, "methinks it is not with the
tenderness of sympathy, that you tell me we must desist. Sure it is only
the mist of tears through which I behold you, that makes me see the
suppressed emotion of pleasure in your countenance. No, it is not in the
heart of Edwin to harbour for a moment the sentiments of barbarity and
insult--But if we cannot now escape--if the dangers to which we must
submit may be diminished by delay--indeed, Edwin, something must be
attempted--at least let us now fix upon a plan, and determine what to
do. Let not delay relax the spirit of enterprise, or shake the firmness
of our purpose."
"And what plan," cried the pretended shepherd, "can we form? I have
already trod the intricate and dangerous road, and there is nothing
better for us than to tread my footsteps back again.
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