"Walter," resumed the lady, sighing, "do you remember?--this is his
birthday. He is ten years old today. We have loved each other eleven
years, and thou hast not tired yet of thy poor Adeline."

"As well might the saints weary of paradise," replied Montreal, with an
enamoured tenderness, which changed into softness the whole character of
his heroic countenance.

"Could I think so, I should indeed be blest!" answered Adeline. "But
a little while longer, and the few charms I yet possess must fade; and
what other claim have I on thee?"

"All claim;--the memory of thy first blushes--thy first kiss--of thy
devoted sacrifices--of thy patient wanderings--of thy uncomplaining
love! Ah, Adeline, we are of Provence, not of Italy; and when did Knight
of Provence avoid his foe, or forsake his love? But enough, dearest, of
home and melancholy for today. I come to bid thee forth. I have sent
on the servitors to pitch our tent beside the sea,--we will enjoy the
orange blossoms while we may. Ere another week pass over us, we may have
sterner pastime and closer confines."

"How, dearest Walter! thou dost not apprehend danger?"

"Thou speakest, lady-bird," said Montreal, laughing, "as if danger were
novelty; methinks by this time, thou shouldst know it as the atmosphere
we breathe."

"Ah, Walter, is this to last for ever? Thou art now rich and renowned;
canst thou not abandon this career of strife?"