Thou wert dear to me,
Sigismund--very dear--for I thought thee under the curse of my race; do
not hate me, if I say my heart is now in the grave of--"
"Mother!" exclaimed the young man reproachfully.
"Well I am still thy mother," answered Marguerite, smiling, though
painfully; "thou art a noble boy, and no change of fortune can ever alter
thy soul. 'Tis a cruel parting, Balthazar and I know not, after all, that
thou didst well to deceive me; for I have had as much grief as joy in the
youth--grief, bitter grief, that one like him should be condemned to live
under the curse of our race--but it is ended now--he is not of us--no, he
is no longer of us!"
This was uttered so plaintively that Sigismund bent his face to his hands
and sobbed aloud.
"Now that the happy and proud weep, 'tis time that the wretched dried
their tears," added the wife of Balthazar, looking about her with a sad
mixture of agony and pride struggling in her countenance: for, in spite of
her professions, it was plain that she yielded her claim on the noble
youth with deep yearnings and an intense agony of spirit.
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