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The Scottish
Chiefs
Vol 2: Chapter
21 - Forrest of Vincennes |
AVOIDING the frequented track to
Paris, Wallace (to whom Grimsby was now a valuable auxiliary, he being
well acquainted with the country,) took a sequestered path by the banks of
the Marne; and entered the forest of Vincennes just as the moon set.
Having ridden far, and without cessation,
the old soldier proposed their alighting, to allow the lady an opportunity
of reposing awhile under the trees.—Helen
was indeed nearly exhausted; though the idea of her happy flight, by
inspiring her with a strength which surprised even herself, for a long
time had kept her insensible to fatigue. While her friends pressed on,
with a speed which allowed no more conversation than occasional enquiries
of how she bore the journey, the swiftness of the motion, and the rapidity
of the events which had brought her from the most frightful of situations,
into one the dearest to her secret and hardly-breathed wishes,—so
bewildered her faculties, that she almost feared she was only enjoying one
of those dreams which, since her captivity, had often mocked her with the
image of Wallace and her release; and every moment, she dreaded to awake,
and find herself still a prisoner to De Valence. "I want no
rest;" replied she to the observation of Grimsby; "I could feel
none, till we are beyond the possibility of being overtaken by my
enemy." "You are as safe in this wood, Lady," returned the
soldier, "as you can be in any place betwixt Galliard and Paris. It
is many miles from the château; and lies in so remote a direction, that
were the Earl to pursue us, I am sure he would never choose this
path." "And did he even come up with us, dear Lady Helen,"
said Wallace, "could you fear, when with your father’s
friend?" "It is for my father’s friend, I fear;" gently
answered she; "I can have no dreads for myself, while under such
protection."
A very little more
persuaded Helen; and Grimsby having spread his cloak on the grass, Wallace
lifted her from the horse. As soon as she put her foot to the ground, her
head grew giddy, and she must have fallen, but for the supporting arm of
her watchful friend. He carried her to the couch prepared by the good
soldier, and laid her on it. Grimsby had been more provident than they
could have expected; for after saddling the second pair of horses, he had
returned into the hall for his cloak, and taking an undrawn flask of wine
from the seneschal’s supper table, put it into his vest. This he now
produced, and Wallace made Helen drink some of it. The cordial revived
her; and sinking on her pillow of leaves, she soon found the repose her
wearied frame demanded and induced. For fear of disturbing her, not a word
was spoken. Wallace watched at her head, and Bruce sat at her feet, while
Grimsby remained with the horses, as a kind of outpost.
Sweet was her sleep; for
the thoughts with which she sunk into slumber, occupied her dreams. Still
she was riding by the side of Wallace, and listening to his voice,
cheering her through the lengthening way! But some wild animal in its
nightly prowl, crossing before the horses, they began to snort and plunge;
and though the no less terrified alarmer fled far away, it was with
difficulty the voice and management of Grimsby could quiet them. The noise
suddenly awoke Helen; and her scattered faculties not immediately
recollecting themselves, she felt an instant impression that all had
indeed been but a dream; and starting in affright, she exclaimed,—"Where
am !? Wallace, where art thou ?"’ "Here !" cried he,
pressing her hand with fraternal tenderness; "I am here; you are safe
with your friend and brother." Her heart beat with a terror which
this assurance could hardly subdue. At last she said in an agitated voice,
"Forgive me, if my senses are a little strayed ?—I have suffered so
much, and this release seems so miraculous, that at moments I hardly
believe it real. I wish daylight were come, that I might be
convinced." When she had uttered these words, she suddenly stopped,
and then added, "But! am very weak to talk thus ;—I believe my late
terrors have disordered my head."
"What you feel, Lady,
is only natural," observed Bruce "l
experienced the same when I first regained my liberty, and found myself on
the road to join Sir William Wallace. Dear, indeed, is liberty; but dearer
is the friend, whose virtues make our recovered freedom
sure."—"Who speaks to me?" said Helen, in a low voice to
Wallace, and raising her head from that now supporting arm, on which she
felt she did but too much delight to lean. "One," answered
Wallace, in the same tone, "who is not to be publicly known, until
occasion demands it; one who I trust in God, will one day seal the
happiness of Scotland,—Robert Bruce." That name, which, when in her
idea it belonged to Wallace, used to raise such emotions in her breast,
she now heard with an indifference that surprised her. But who could be
more to Scotland, than Wallace had been? All that was in the power of
patriot, or of king, to do for his country, he had done; and what then was
Bruce, in her estimation? One who basking in pleasures while his country
suffered, allowed a brave subject to breast, to overthrow, every danger,
before he would put himself forward! and now he appeared, to assume a
throne, which, though his right by birth, he had most justly forfeited, by
neglecting the duties indispensable in the heir of so great and oppressed
a kingdom! These would have been her thoughts of him :—but Wallace
called this Bruce his friend! and the few words she had heard him speak,
being full of gratitude to her deliverer, that engaged her esteem.
The answer, however, which
she made to the reply of Wallace, was spontaneous; and it struck upon the
heart of Bruce: "How long," said she, "have you promised.
Scotland, it should see that day ?"
"Long, to my grief, Lady
Helen:" rejoined Bruce: "I would say to my shame ;—had I ever
intentionally erred towards my country: but ignorance of her state, and of
the depth of Edward’s treachery, was my crime. I only required to be
shown the right path, to pursue it; and Sir William
Wallace came to point the way. My soul, Lady, is not unworthy the destiny
to which he calls me." Had there been light, she would have seen the
flush of conscious virtue, that overspread his fine countenance while he
spoke; but the words were sufficient, to impress her with that respect be
deserved, and which her answer showed.— "My father taught me to
consider the Bruce, the rightful heirs of Scotland: and now that I see the
day, which he so often wished to hail, I cannot but regard it as the
termination of Scotlands woes. Oh! had it been before!
perhaps—"here she paused, for tears stopped her utterance.-
"You think:" rejoined Bruce, "that much bloodshed might
have been spared! But, dear Lady, poison not the comfort of your life by
that belief. No man exists, who could have effected so much for Scotland
in so short a time, and with so little loss, as our Wallace has done. Who,
like him, makes mercy the companion of war; and compels even his enemies
to emulate the clemency he shows? Fewer have been slain on the Scottish
side, during the whole of his struggle with Edward, than were lost by
Baliol on the fatal day of Dunbar. Then, no quarter was given; and too
many of the wounded were left to perish on the field. But with Wallace,
life was granted to all who asked; the wounded enemy, and the friend, were
alike succoured by him. This conduct, provoked the jealousy of the
Southron generals, not to be surpassed in generosity; and thus,
comparatively, few have been lost. But if in that number, some were our
noblest chiefs, we must be resigned to yield to God what is his own; nay,
we must be grateful, daughter of the gallant Mar, for the manner in which
they were taken. They fell in the arms of true glory, like parents
defending their offspring: while others—my grandfather, and
father—perished with broken hearts; in unavailing lamentations, that
they could not share the fate of those who died for
Scotland."—"But you, dear Bruce," returned Wallace,
"will live for her:
will teach those, whose hearts have bled in her cause, to find a balm for
every wound, in her prosperity."
Helen smiled through her
tears, at these words.—They spoke the heavenly consolation, which had
descended on her own mourning spirit. "If Scotland be to rest, under
the happy reign of Robert Bruce, then envy cannot again assail Sir William
Wallace, and my father has not shed his blood in vain. His beatified
spirit, with those of my uncles Bothwell and Ruthven, will rejoice in such
a peace; and I shall enjoy it to felicity, in so sacred a
participation." Surprised at her associating the name of Lord Ruthven
with those who had fallen, Wallace interrupted her with the assurance of
her uncle’s safety. The Scottish chiefs easily understood, that De
Valence had given her the opposite intelligence, to impress her with an
idea that she was friendless, and so precipitate her into the
determination of becoming his wife. But she did not repeat to her brave
auditors, all the arguments he had used to shake her impregnable heart.
Impregnable, because a principle kept guard there, which neither flattery
nor ambition could dispossess. He had told her, that the very day in which
she would give him her hand, King Edward would send him viceroy into
Scotland, where she should reign with all the power and magnificence of a
queen. He was handsome, accomplished, and adored her: but Helen could not
love him whom she could not esteem; for she knew he was libertine, base,
and cruel.—That he loved her, affected her not: she could only be
sensible to an affection placed on worthy foundations; and he who trampled
on all virtues in his own actions, could not desire them when seen in her;
he therefore must love her for the fairness of her form alone; and to
place any value on such affection, was to grasp the wind. Personal
flatteries having made no im pression
on Helen, ambitious projects were attempted with equal failure. Had De
Valence been lord of the east and western
empire, could he have made her the envy and admiration of a congregated
world, all would have been in vain: she had seen and known the virtues of
Sir William Wallace; and from that hour, all that was excellent in man,
all that was desirable on earth, seemed to her to be in him summed up.
"On the barren heath," said she to herself; "in some desert
island, with only thee and thy virtues, now happy could be Helen Mar! how
great !—For, to share thy heart, thy noble, glorious heart, would be a
bliss, a seal of honour from Heaven, with which no terrestrial elevation
could compare !" Then would she sigh; then would she thank God, for
so ennobling her, as to make her capable of appreciating, and loving above
all earthly things, the matchless virtues of Sir William Wallace. On the
very evening of the night in which he had so unexpectedly appeared to
release her, her thoughts had been engaged in this
train.—"Yes," cried she to herself, "even in loving thy
perfections, there is such enjoyment, that I would rather be as I am; what
others might call the hopeless Helen; than the loving, and beloved, of any
other man on earth. In thee, I love virtue; and the imperishable sentiment
will bless me in the world to come." With these thoughts she had
fallen asleep: she dreamt that she called on her father, on Wallace to
save her: and, on opening her eyes, she had found him indeed near.
Every word which this
almost adored friend now said to comfort her, with regard to her own
immediate losses; to assure her of the peace of Scotland, should Heaven
bless the return of Bruce; took root in her soul, and sprang up into
resignation and happiness. She listened to the plans of Wallace and of
Bruce to effect their great enterprise, and the hours of the night passed
to her, not only in repose, but in enjoyment. Wallace, though pleased with
the interest she took in even the minutest details of their design, became
fearful of overtasking her weakened frame: he whispered Bruce, to
gradually drop the conversation; and, as it died away, slumber again stole
over her eyelids.
The dawn had spread far
over the sky, while she yet slept Wallace sat contemplating her, and the
now sleeping Bruce, who had also imperceptibly sunk to rest. Various and
anxious were his meditations. He had hardly seen seven-and-twenty years,
yet so had he been tried in the vicissitudes of life, that he felt as if
he had lived a century; and instead of looking on the lovely Helen, as on
one whose charms might claim a lover’s wishes in his breast, he regarded
her with sentiments more like parental tenderness. That, indeed, seemed
the affection which now reigned in his bosom. He felt as a father, towards
Scotland. For every son and daughter of that harassed country, he was
ready to lay down his life. Edwin he cherished in his heart, as he would
have done the dearest of his own offspring. It was as a parent to whom a
beloved and prodigal son had returned, that he looked on Bruce. But Helen,
of all Scotland’s daughters, she was the most precious in his eyes: set
love aside, and no object without the touch of that all-pervading passion,
could he regard with more endearing tenderness than he did Helen Mar.
The shades of night
vanished before the bright uprise of the king of day, and with them her
slumbers. She stirred; she awoke. The lark was then soaring with shrill
cadence over her head: its notes pierced the ear of Bruce, and he started
on his feet. "You have allowed me to sleep, Wallace
?"—"And why not?" replied he. "Here it was safe for
all to have slept. Yet had there been danger, I was at my post, to have
called you." He gently smiled as he spoke.
"Whence, my
friend:" cried Bruce, with a respondent beam on his countenance;
"did you draw the ethereal essence that animates your frame? You toil
for us; watch for us; and yet you never seem fatigued, never discomposed
!— How is this? What does it mean ?"
"That the soul is
immortal," answered Wallace; "that it has a godlike power given
to it by the Giver of all good, even while on earth, to subdue the wants
of this mortal frame. The circumstances in which Heaven has cast me, have
disciplined my body, to obey my mind in all things; and, therefore, when
the motives for exertion are strong within me, it is long, very long,
before I feel hunger, thirst, or drowsiness. Indeed, while thus occupied,
I have often thought it possible for the activity of the soul, so to wear
the body, that some day she might find it suddenly fall away from about
her spiritual substance and leave her unencumbered, without having felt
the touch of death. And yet, that Elisha-like change," continued
Wallace, following up his own thought, "could not be till Heaven sees
the appointed time.—Man does not live by bread alone; neither by sleep,
nor any species of refreshment. His Spirit alone, who created all things,
can give us rest, while we keep the strictest vigils: It is power can
sustain the wasting-frame, even in a barren wilderness."
"True," replied
Helen, looking timidly up; "but, because Heaven is so gracious, as
sometimes to work miracles in our favour, surely we are not authorised to
neglect the natural means of obtaining the same end?"
"Certainly not:"
returned Wallace; "it is not for man, to tempt God at any time.
Sufficient for us, it is, to abide by his all-wise dispensations. When we
are in circumstances that allow the usual means of life, it is demanded of
us to use them. But when we are brought into situations, where watching,
fasting, and uncommon toils are not to be avoided; then it is an essential
part of our obedience, to perform our duties to the end, without any
regard to the wants which may impede our way. It is in such an hour, when
the soul of man, resolved to obey, looks down on human nature and looks up
to God, that he receives both the manna, and the ever-living waters of
heaven. By this faith and perseverance, the uplifted hands of Moses
prevailed over Amalek in Rephidim; and by the same, did the lengthened
race of the sun, light Joshua to a double victory in Gibeon."
The morning vapours having
dispersed from the opposite plain, and Helen quite refreshed by her long
repose, Wallace seated her on horseback, and they recommenced their
journey. The helmets of both chiefs were now open. Grimsby looked at one,
and the other; the countenance of both assured him that he should find a
protecter in either. He drew towards Helen: she noticed his manner, and
observing to Wallace, that she believed the soldier wished to speak with
her, checked her horse. At this action, Grimsby presumed to ride up, and
bowing respectfully, said, that before he followed her to Paris, it would
be right for the Count de Valois to know whom he had taken into his train;
"one, Madam, who has been degraded by King Edward; degraded,"
added he, "but not debased; that last disgrace depends on myself; and
I should shrink from your protection, rather than court it, were I indeed
vile." "I have too well proved your integrity, Grimsby,"
replied Helen, "to doubt it now: but what has the Count de Valois to
do, with your being under my protection? It is not to him we go, but to
the French king."—"And is not that knight, with the
diadem," inquired Grimsby, "the Count de Valois? The servants at
Château Galliard told me he was so." Surprised at this, Helen said,
the knight should answer for himself: and quickening the step of her
horse, followed by Grimsby, rejoined his side.
When she informed Wallace
of what had passed, he called the soldier to approach.
"Grimsby," said he, "you have claims upon me, which should
ensure you my protection, were I even insensible to the honourable
principles you have just declared to Lady Helen. But, I repeat, I am
already your friend. You have only to speak, and all in my power to serve
you shall be done." "Then, sir," returned he, "as mine
is rather a melancholy story, and parts of it have already drawn tears
from Lady Helen, if you will honour me with your attention apart from her,
I would relate bow I fell into disgrace with my sovereign."
Wallace fell a little back
with Grimsby; and while Bruce and Helen rode briskly forward, he, at a
slower pace, prepared to listen to the recapitulation of scenes, in which
he was only too deeply interested. The soldier began by narrating the
fatal events at Ellerslie, which had compelled him to leave the army in
Scotland. He related, that after quitting the priory of St. Fillan, he
reached Guienne; and there served under the Earl of Lincoln, until the
marriage of Edward with King Philip’s sister, gave the English monarch
quiet possession of that province. Grimsby then marched with the rest of
the troops to join their sovereign in Flanders. There he was recognised,
and brought to judgment, by one of Heselrigge’s captains; one who had
been a particular favourite with that tyrant, from their similarity of
disposition, and to whom he had told the mutiny and desertion (as he
called it) of Grimsby. But on the representation of the Earl of Lincoln,
his punishment was mitigated from death to the infliction of a certain
number of lashes. This sentence, which the honest soldier regarded as
worse than the loss of life, was executed. On stripping him at the
halberts, Lady Helen’s gift, the diamond clasp was found hanging round
his neck. This was seized as a proof of some new crime: his general now
gave him up; and so inconsistent were his judges, that while they allowed
his treason (for so they stigmatised his manly resentment of
Heselrigge’s cruelty,) to prejudice them in this second charge; they
would not believe, what was so probable, that this very jewel had been
given to him by a friend of Sir William Wallace, in reward for his
behaviour on that occasion. He appealed to Edward; but he appealed in
vain; and on the following day he was adjudged to be broken on the wheel
for the supposed robbery. Every heart was callous to his sufferings, but
that of the wife of his gaoler; who, fancying him like a brother of hers,
who had been killed ten years before in Italy,—at the dead of the night
she opened his prison-doors. He fled into Normandy; and, without a home,
outlawed, branded as a traitor and a thief, he was wandering,
half-desperate, one stormy night on the banks of the Maine, when a cry of
distress attracted his attention. It issued from the suite of De Valence,
in his way to Guienne.—Scared at the tempest, the female attendants of
Lady Helen had abandoned themselves to shrieks of despair; but she,
insensible to anything but grief, lay in perfect stillness in the litter
that conveyed her. As Grimsby approached the travellers, De Valence
demanded his assistance to conduct them to a place of shelter. Château
Galliard was the nearest residence, fit to receive the Earl and his train.
Thither the soldier led them; and heard from the servants, that the lady
in the vehicle was their lord’s wife, and a lunatic. Grimsby remained in
the château, because he had nowhere else to go; and, by accidental
speeches from the lady’s attendants, soon found that she was not married
to the Earl; and was not only perfectly sane, but often most cruelly
treated. Her name he had never learnt until the last evening, when
carrying some wine into the banqueting-room, he heard De Valence mention
it to the other stranger knight. He then retired full of, horror,
resolving to essay her rescue himself; but the unexpected sight of the two
knights in the hall, determined him to reveal the case to them.
"This;" added Grimsby, "is my story; and whoever you are,
noble Lord, if you think me not unworthy your protection, grant it; and
you shall find me faithful unto death."
"I owe you that, and
more;" replied the chief; "I am that Wallace, on whose account
you fled your country ;— and if you be willing to share the fortunes of
one who may live and die in camps, I pledge you that my best destiny shall
be yours." Could Grimsby, in his joyful surprise, have thrown himself
at the feet of Wallace, he would have done so: but taking hold of the end
of his scarf, he pressed it enthusiastically to his lips, and exclaimed,
"Bravest of the brave! this is beyond my prayers, to meet here the
triumphant lord of Scotland !—I fell innocently into disgrace; ah! how
am I now exalted unto honour !—My country would have deprived me of
life; I am therefore dead to it, and live only to gratitude and you !
"—"Then;" replied Wallace, "as the first proof of
the confidence I repose in you, know that the young chief, who is riding
forward with Lady Helen, is Robert Bruce, the Prince of Scotland. Our next
enterprise is to place him upon the throne of his ancestors. Meanwhile,
till we license you to do otherwise, keep our names a secret, and call us
by those we may hereafter think fit to assume."
Grimsby, once more
reinstated in the station he deserved—that of trust and respect—no
longer hung his head in abject despondency; but looking erect, as one born
again from disgrace, he became the active, cheerful, and faithful servant
of Wallace.
During Wallace’s
conversation with the soldier, Helen was listening with delight to the
encomiums which Bruce passed upon his friend and champion. As his eloquent
tongue, described the merits of Wallace, and expressed an ardent gratitude
for his having so gloriously supplied his place to Scotland, Helen turned
her eyes upon the Prince. Before, she had scarcely remarked that he was
more than young and handsome; but now, while she contemplated the noble
confidence which breathed in every feature; she said to herself,
"This man is worthy to be the friend of Wallace! His soul is a mirror
to reflect all the brightness of Wallace’s: ay, like as with the sun’s
rays, to kindle with Heaven’s fire, all on whom it turns."
Bruce remarked the unusual
animation of her eyes, as she looked on him. "You feel all I say of
Wallace ! " said he. And it was not a charge, at which she need
blush!
It was addressed to that
perception of exalted worth, which regards neither sex nor age. Helen did
not misapprehend him. The amiable frankness of his manner, seemed to open
to him her heart. Wallace, she adored almost as a god; Bruce, she could
love as a brother. It requires not time, nor proof, to make virtuous
hearts coalesce; there is a language without sounds, a recognition,
independent of the visual organ, which acknowledges the kindred of
congenial souls, almost in the moment they meet. "The virtuous mind,
knoweth its brother in the dark !" This was said by the man, whose
soul sympathised in every noble purpose with that of Wallace; while Helen,
impelled by the same principle, and blushing with an emotion untainted by
any sensation of shame, replied, "I too am grateful to Heaven, for
having allowed me to witness the goodness, to share the esteem of such a
being—a man, whose like I have never seen!" "He is one of the
few, Lady Helen;" replied Bruce, "who is worthy of so august a
title; and he brightly, shows the image in which he was made; so humble,
so dignified! so great, so lowly! so supereminent, in all accomplishments
of mind, and body! wise, brave, and invincible; yet forbearing, gentle,
and unassuming: formed to be beloved, yet without a touch of vanity;
loving all who approach him, without the least alloy of passion. Ah! Lady
Helen, he is a model after which I will fashion my life; for, he has
written the character of the Son of God in his heart; and it shall be my
study, to transcribe the blessed copy into mine !" Tears of gratitude
glittered in the eye, and on the smile of Helen. To answer Bruce, she
found to be impossible; but that her smile and look, were fully
appreciated by him, his own told her; and stretching out his hand to her;
as she put hers into his, he said "We are united in his heart, my
sweet friend !"—At this moment Wallace joined them. He saw the
action, and the animation of each countenance, and looked at Bruce with a
glance of inquiry; but Bruce, perceived nothing of a lover’s jealousy in
the look: it carried the wish of a friend, to share what had impressed
them with such happy traits.
"We have been talking
of you," returned the Prince; "and if to be beloved, is a source
of joy, you must be peculiarly blest. The affections of Lady Helen and
myself have met, and made your heart the altar on which we have pledged
our fraternal love." Wallace regarded each with a look of tenderness.
"It is my joy to love you both, like a brother; but Lady Helen must
consider me, as even more than that to her. I am her father’s
representative; I am the voice of grateful Scotland, thanking her for the
preservation, her generous exertions yielded !—And to you, my Prince, I
am your friend, your subject, all that is devoted and true."
Thus enjoying the dear
communion of hearts, the interchange of mind, and mingling soul with soul,
did these three friends journey towards the gates of Paris. Every hour
seemed an age of blessedness to Helen; so gratefully did she enjoy each
passing moment of a happiness, that seemed to speak of Paradise. Nature
never before appeared so beautiful in her eyes: the sky was more serene,
the birds sung with sweeter notes, the landscape shone in brighter charms;
the fragrance of the flowers, bathed her senses in softest balm; and the
very air, as it breathed around her, seemed fraught with life and joy. But
Wallace animated the scene! and while she fancied that she inhaled his
breath in every respiration, she moved as if on enchanted ground. Oh! she
could have lingered there for ever! and hardly did she know what it was to
draw any but sighs of bliss, till she saw the towers of Paris embattling
the horizon. They reminded her, that she was now going to be occasionally
divided from him; that when entered within those walls, it would no longer
be deemed decorous for her to pass days and nights in listening to his
voice, in losing all of woman’s love, in the beatified affection of an
angel.
This passion of the soul,
(if such it may be called,) which has its rise in virtue, and its aim the
same, would be most unjustly degraded, were it classed with what the herd
generally entitle love. The love, which men stigmatise, deride, and yet
encourage, is a fancy, an infatuation, awakened by personal attractions;
by—the lover knows not what; sometimes by gratified vanity; sometimes by
idleness; and, often, by the most debasing propensities of human nature.
Earthly it is, and unto earth it shall return! But love, true,
heaven—born love, that pure affection which unites congenial spirits
here, and with which the Creator will hereafter connect, in one blest
fraternity, the whole kindred of mankind, has but one cause ;—the
universal fairness of its object ;—that bright perfection, which speaks
of unchangeableness, and immortality; a something so excellent, that the
simple wish to partake its essence, in the union of affection,—to
facilitate and to share its attainment of true and lasting
happiness,—invigorates our virtue, and inspires our souls. These are the
aims, and joys of real love. It has nothing selfish: in every desire it
soars above this earth; and anticipates, as the ultimatum of its joy, the
moment when it shall meet its partner before the throne of God. Such was
the sentiment of Helen towards Wallace. So unlike what she had seen in
others, of the universal passion, she would hardly have acknowledged to
herself that what she felt was love, had not the anticipation of even an
hour’s separation from him, whispered the secret to her heart.
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