This was their first language, soon succeeded by passionate and glowing protestations on his part; by blushing, trembling confessions on hers.  They spoke and looked like all the millions of lovers who have found themselves alone in this old world of ours.  The same old story, yet ever new.

The conduct, hopes, and fears of these young lovers could not be judged by common rules.  Theirs was a love which could not hope for happiness or continuance; for which there was no perfumed oasis, no blooming myrtle-wreath to crown its dark and stormy path.  They might be sure that the farther they advanced, the more trackless and arid would be the desert opening before them.  Tears and robes of mourning would constitute their festal adorning.

“Why has Destiny placed you so high above me that I cannot hope to reach you? can never climb the ladder which leads to heaven and to happiness?” said Trenck, as he knelt before the princess.

She played thoughtfully with his long dark hair, and a burning tear rolled slowly over her cheek and fell upon his brow.  That was her only answer.

Trenck shuddered.  He dashed the tear from his face with trembling horror.  “Oh, Amelia! you weep; you have no word of consolation, of encouragement, of hope for me?”

“No word, my friend; I have no hope, no consolation.  I know that a dark and stormy future awaits us.  I know that this cloudy night, under whose shadow we for the first time join our hands will endure forever; that for us the sun will never shine.  I know that the moment our glances first met, my protecting angel veiled her face and, weeping, left me.  I know that it would have been wiser and better to give your heart, with its treasures, to a poor beggar-girl on the street, than to consecrate it to the sister of a king—­to the poor Princess Amelia.”

“Stop, stop!” cried Trenck, still on his knees, and bowing his head almost to the earth.  “Your words pierce my heart like poisoned daggers, and yet I feel that they are truth itself.  Yes, I was indeed a bold traitor, in that I dared to raise my eyes to you; I was a blasphemer, in that I, the unconsecrated, forced myself into the holy temple of your heart; upon its altar the vestal flame of your pure and innocent thoughts burned clearly, until my hot and stormy sighs brought unrest and wild disorder.  But I repent.  There is yet time.  You are bound to me by no vow, no solemn oath.  Oh, Amelia! lay this scarcely-opened flower of our first young love by the withered violet-wreaths of your childhood, with which even now you sometimes play and smile upon in quiet and peaceful hours; to which you whisper:  ’You were once beautiful and fragrant; you made me happy—­but that is past.’  Oh, Amelia! yet is there time; give me up; spurn me from you.  Call your servants and point me out to them as a madman, who has dared to glide into your room; whose passion has made him blind and wild.  Give me over to justice and to the scaffold.  Only