The novice was touched: the present language of Don Juan was so different from what it had been before; the earnest love that breathed in his voice--that looked from his eyes, struck a chord in her breast; it reminded her of her own unconquered, unconquerable love for the lost Muza. She was touched, then--touched to tears; but her resolves were not shaken.
“Oh, Leila!” resumed the prince, fondly, mistaking the nature of her emotion, and seeking to pursue the advantage he imagined he had gained, “look at yonder sunbeam, struggling through the loophole of thy cell. Is it not a messenger from the happy world? does it not plead for me? does it not whisper to thee of the green fields and the laughing vineyards, and all the beautiful prodigality of that earth thou art about to renounce for ever? Dost thou dread my love? Are the forms around thee, ascetic and lifeless, fairer to thine eyes than mine? Dost thou doubt my power to protect thee? I tell thee that the proudest nobles of Spain would flock around my banner, were it necessary to guard thee by force of arms. Yet, speak the word--be mine--and I will fly hence with thee to climes where the Church has not cast out its deadly roots, and, forgetful of crowns and cares, live alone for thee: Ah, speak!”
“My lord,” said Leila, calmly, and rousing herself to the necessary effort, “I am deeply and sincerely grateful for the interest you express--for the affection you avow. But you deceive yourself. I have pondered well over the alternative I have taken. I do not regret nor repent--much less would I retract it. The earth that you speak of, full of affections and of bliss to others, has no ties, no allurements for me. I desire only peace, repose, and an early death.”
“Can it be possible,” said the prince, growing pale, “that thou lovest another? Then, indeed, and then only, would my wooing be in vain.”
The cheek of the novice grew deeply flushed, but the color soon subsided; she murmured to herself, “Why should I blush to own it now?” and then spoke aloud: “Prince, I trust I have done with the world; and bitter the pang I feel when you call me back to it. But you merit my candour; I have loved another; and in that thought, as in an urn, lie the ashes of all affection. That other is of a different faith. We may never--never meet again below, but it is a solace to pray that we may meet above. That solace, and these cloisters, are dearer to me than all the pomp, all the pleasures, of the world.”