ABSTRACT
It was come – it was gone – that eventful day, dreaded, with such anxiety, by the tembling Matilda – wished for with such heroic ardour by Strathallan – escaped, escaped, with glory, from its carnage. Was he happy? Had public success left his heart nothing more to desire? The preparations for war, the tumult of battle might have drowned, for a moment, the murmurs of that heart; but, in the intervals of the mighty struggle of an empire, it flew back, with trembling fondness to Matilda. Conceiving his services could, for a short period, be dispensed with, he determined, (giving up the pleasure of entering the capital of Spain with the army that had so nobly avenged her), to obtain permission to absent himself, that he might judge, by his own eyes, if there were yet, beyond the proud rewards of valour, any object worth living for. Matilda’s unaccountable silence struck his heart, by turns, with every painful suspicion. Fears for her health – doubts of her fidelity, alternately racked his mind. Yet, when he thought of the whole tenor of her conduct, he was ready to reproach himself for sullying the image of that angel brightness enshrined in his heart, with even the momentary imputation of inconstancy.
