“Against traitors.”

“Against me, perhaps.”

“Heaven forbid that the blood of any of your kin should be upon my hands.  I know how much you have suffered, dearest, with the thought that this unhappy business may separate us for a time.  Think you that the eye of affection could fail to notice your dejection and reflective mood for some days past?”

Her face grew crimson, and she tore nervously the petals of the flower in her hand.

“Oriana, you are my betrothed, and no earthly discords should sever our destinies or estrange our hearts.  Why should we part at all.  Be mine at once, Oriana, and go with me to the loyal North, for none may tell how soon a barrier may be set between your home and me.”

“That would be treason to my kindred and the home of my birth.”

“And to be severed from me—­would it not be treason to your heart?”

She did not answer.

“I have spoken to Beverly about it, and he will not seek to control you.  We are most unhappy, Oriana, in our national troubles; why should we be so in our domestic ties.  We can be blest, even among the rude alarms of war.  This strife will soon be over, and you shall see the old homestead once again.  But while the dark cloud lowers, I call upon you, in the name of your pledged affection, to share my fortunes with me, and bless me with this dear hand.”

That hand remained passively within his own, but her bosom swelled with emotion, and presently the large tears rolled upon her cheek.  He would have pressed her to his bosom, but she gently turned from him, and sinking upon the sward, sobbed through her clasped fingers.

“Why are you thus unhappy, dear Oriana?” he murmured, as he bent tenderly above her.  “Surely you do not love me less because of this poison of rebellion that infects the land.  And with love, woman’s best consolation, to be your comforter, why should you be unhappy?”

She arose, pale and excited, and raised his hand to her lips.  The act seemed to him a strange one for an affianced bride, and he gazed upon her with a troubled air.

“Let us go home, Harold.”

“But tell me that you love me.”

She placed her two hands lightly about his neck, and looked up mournfully but steadily into his face.

“I will be your true wife, Harold, and pray heaven I may love you as you deserve to be loved.  But I am not well to-day, Harold.  Let us speak no more of this now, for there is something at my heart that must be quieted with penitence and prayer.  Oh, do not question me, Harold,” she added, as she leaned her cheek upon his breast; “we will talk with Beverly, and to-morrow I shall be stronger and less foolish.  Come, Harold, let us go home.”

She placed her arm within his, and they walked silently homeward.  When they reached the house, Oriana was hastening to her chamber, but she lingered at the threshold, and returned to Harold.