The contending emotions sweeping over that
frail woman-heart in that fearful period of indecision we pretend not
to describe: again and again the terrible temptation came, to say but
the desired word, and happiness was hers--such intense happiness, that
her brain reeled beneath its thought of ecstasy; and again and again
it was driven back by that thrilling voice--louder than ever in its
call--to remain faithful to her God. It was a fearful contest; and
when she did look up, Isabella started; so terribly was its index
inscribed on those white and chiselled features.
She rose slowly, and stood before the Sovereign, her hands tightly
clasped together, and the veins on her forehead raised like cords
across it. Three times she tried to speak; but only unintelligible
murmurs came, and her lips shook as with convulsion. "It is over,"
she said at length, and her usually sweet voice sounded harsh and
unnatural. "The weakness is conquered, gracious Sovereign, condemn,
scorn, hate me as thou wilt, thou must: I must endure it till my
heart breaks, and death brings release; but the word thou demandest I
_cannot_ speak! Thy favor, Arthur's love, I resign them all! 'Tis the
bidding of my God, and he will strengthen me to bear it. Imprison,
torture, slay, with the lingering misery of a broken heart, but I
cannot deny my faith!"
Disappointed, grieved, as she was at this unexpected reply, Isabella
was too much an enthusiast in religion herself not to understand the
feeling which dictated it; and much as she still abhorred the faith,
the martyr spirit which could thus immolate the most fervid, the
most passionate emotions of woman's nature at the shrine of her God,
stirred a sympathetic chord in her own heart, and so moved her, that
the stern words she had intended to speak were choked within her.
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