LORELIE RIVIÈRE
The expedition to Ormfell had been a failure from Idris' point of view.
Deaf to the voice of reason he had clung to the idea that the Viking's
tomb held a clue that would aid him in finding his father. Having now
received clear proof of the fallacy of that hope Idris, after a few
hours' sleep, wandered forth by the seashore to consider what his next
step should be.
It was an afternoon of brilliant sunshine. The tide was out, but
without making any inquiries as to the time of its return, he strolled
leisurely onward, wrapped in meditation.
Casually raising his eyes from the ribbed sea-sand he caught sight
of a structure, locally known as "The Stairs of David." This was an
arrangement of three ladders, suspended one above another on the face
of the cliff, which at this point rose vertically to a height of more
than a hundred feet. Iron hooks kept these ladders in position. The
structure, a very frail one, had been put up originally to enable
crab-fishers to reach this part of the beach with more expedition.
Still deep in thought Idris passed on, and had left the ladder about a
mile in his rear, when he suddenly paused and looked in the direction
of the murmuring sound--the sound he had heard for some time, but to
which he had given no heed.
The tide was coming in, and coming in so quickly, that unless he
hastened back at once he ran the risk of being drowned: for steep
cliffs rose above him, and the open beach was at least five miles away.
Just on the point of setting off at a run he was checked by the
recollection of "The Stairs of David." It would be easy to scale the
cliff by means of this structure.
He moved onward at a leisurely pace, and then stopped abruptly. What
was that object rising and falling on the surface of the water a few
yards in rear of the advancing line of foam? Let "The Stairs of David"
be far off or close by, he must satisfy his curiosity before mounting
them.
He ran to the edge of the breakers, and, with a thrill of surprise,
discovered that the undulating object was a woman's hat.
How came it there? He had not, so far as he could remember, encountered
anybody in his walk along the shore. He looked over the dancing waves,
but neither boat nor vessel was visible: he looked up and down the
beach: he looked along the craggy summit of the cliffs that rose in
frowning grandeur above him, but could see neither man nor woman. He
stood, a solitary figure, on a shore that stretched away north and
south for many miles.
Regardless of the advancing tide he remained motionless, fascinated
by the sight of the hat, his uneasiness deepening each moment. There
was something familiar in the grey felt with its once graceful feather
bedrenched with the salt spray.
He advanced into the shallow water and lifted the hat for a closer
survey. It was rarely that Idris took note of a woman's attire, but he
could recall every detail of the dress worn by Mademoiselle Rivière on
the day he saw her in the Ravengar Chantry, and he knew that this hat
was hers.
His heart, weighted by a terrible idea, sank within him like lead.
Half expecting to see a dead form come floating past he glanced again
over the surface of the rippling tide.
He now recollected, what he had hitherto forgotten, that there were
dangerous quicksands along this part of the coast. Must he believe that
Mademoiselle Rivière had become engulfed, and that the tide was now
foaming jubilantly over her head?
Once more he looked along the shore, and, as he looked, his pulses
thrilled with a sudden and delicious relief; for at the sandy base of a
distant cliff he caught sight of a figure lying prone.
Dropping the hat he hurried over the intervening space, and in a moment
more was kneeling beside the form of Lorelie Rivière. Beneath her lay
the third and lowest of the three ladders that formed the so-called
"Stairs of David." She had been either ascending or descending the
frail structure, and it had given way. The ladder, worm-eaten with age,
had snapped into three portions on touching the sands, and the shock of
its fall had deprived her of consciousness.
Her eyelids were closed. Silent and motionless she lay, her breathing
so faint as scarce to seem breathing at all, her delicate fingers still
clinging to a rung of the fallen ladder.
"Thank heaven, she is alive!" murmured Idris, a great dread rolling
from his heart.
He gently detached her fingers from the rung of the ladder, and,
tenderly raising her, rested her head upon his knee, turning her face
towards the breeze. As he did so, the murmuring sound, that had never
once ceased, seemed to swell louder, and his heart almost leaped into
his mouth when he noticed how rapidly the tide was advancing.
That terrible tide!
Were it not for the rush of waters swirling forward he might have
thought that some good fairy was favouring his heart's dearest wish.
The loveliest maiden whom he had ever seen was resting within his arms,
dependent upon him for safety. But what safety could he give? Their
position seemed hopeless. The last rung of the middle ladder hung
forty feet or more above his head. The lowest ladder lay on the sands
in three portions, and he realized at a glance the impossibility of
refixing them in their original position.
"No boat in sight! Impossible to scale the cliffs! Too far to swim with
her to Ormsby! What is to be our fate?" he muttered.
Idris had often looked death in the face, but never in circumstances
so hard as these. Was he to die holding this fair maiden in his arms,
helplessly witnessing her death-gasps? And the voice of the sea,
swelling ever higher and higher, seemed to give an answering cry of
"Yes, yes!"
The breeze blowing full upon her face had a reviving effect upon her.
Slowly she opened her eyes, and a look of innocent wonder came over her
face when she met Idris' earnest gaze bent upon her.
"You fell from the ladder, you remember," he said, answering the
question in her eyes. "Are you hurt? Have you broken any bones?"
"I--I think not," was the reply.
"Shall I help you to stand?"
She assented. But no sooner was she raised to her feet than throbs of
pain began to shoot through her left ankle, and she leaned for support
against the cliff, resting her right foot only upon the sand.
"My ankle pains me. I don't think I can walk."
While thus speaking she chanced to look upward at the ladder hanging
far above her head, and then, lowering her eyes to the flowing sea,
she suddenly took in the full peril of their position.
"The tide! the tide!" she murmured, clasping her hands. "We are lost."
"We certainly mustn't remain here. And if you cannot walk I must carry
you."
Idris' cheerful and brisk air did not deceive her. Glancing from left
to right she saw the futility of his proposal as well as he saw it
himself.
The contour of the shore formed a semicircular bay many miles in
length, and its sands were lined by a wall of lofty perpendicular
cliffs without a single gap to break their continuity. Idris and his
companion were standing somewhere near the centre of this curve. The
tide, extending in a straight line across the bay, had now closed in
upon the extreme points of the arc-like sweep, and was still advancing,
covering the sand and reducing at each moment the extent of their
standing room. Before Idris could have carried her half-a-mile the sea
would be breaking many feet deep upon the base of the cliffs.
"You cannot save me," said Mademoiselle Rivière, a sudden calmness
coming over her. "It is impossible. You must leave me and try to save
yourself."
The gentle maiden, whom a harsh word melts to tears, will often face
death with fortitude, the great crisis evoking all the latent heroism
of her nature. So it was now, and Idris, looking into the depth of
Mademoiselle Rivière's steadfast eyes, caught a glimpse of how those
Christian women may have looked who faced martyrdom in the pagan days
of old. Strange that a maiden, seemingly so good and brave, should have
excited the aversion of Beatrice!
"If you die, I die with you," said Idris. "But I have no intention of
letting either you or myself die. There is a way of escape open to us."
For, with a sudden thrill of joy, he remembered that, at a point a few
hundred yards to the north of their present position, he had passed
a great pile of rocks, fallen crags detached from the sides of the
overhanging precipice. The spot was invisible from where he now stood,
being hidden behind a projecting buttress of the cliff, but he judged
that the summit of this rocky mass was certainly above high-water mark.
There he and Mademoiselle Rivière must remain till the ebb of the tide,
unless they should be so fortunate as to attract the notice of some
passing boat.
Making known his intention, Idris added, "Pardon me; this is no time
for ceremony."
He lifted her in his arms, and she, with a sudden and natural revulsion
in favour of life, submitted to his will, placing her arms around his
neck to steady her person.
The humming sea, as if bent on securing its victims, came foaming with
threatening rapidity over the bare stretch of sand, throwing forward
long streamlets, that, like eager creatures in a race, seemed striving
with each other to be first at the foot of the cliff.
Though Lorelie Rivière was but a light weight Idris' progress
was necessarily slow. At each step his foot sank deeper into the
rapidly-moistening sand, and ere long the water itself was swirling
round his ankles, and flinging its sparkling spray against the base of
the precipice. And yet in all his life he had never experienced the
pure joy that filled him at that moment. The woman whom he most loved
was reclining within his arms, and clasped so closely to him, that he
could feel her breast swelling against his own, and her hair touching
his cheek. There was a subtle charm in the situation: what wonder,
then, that he desired to prolong it, and that he moved at a slower pace
as he drew near the pile of fallen crags?
The desired haven was gained at last, and Mademoiselle Rivière, partly
by her own efforts and partly with the help of Idris, clambered up the
face of the slippery and weed-grown rocks, the top of which formed an
irregular, hummocky platform, a few yards in extent.
"Saved!" she murmured, sinking down and scarcely able to repress a
tendency to cry. "But will not the tide cover this ledge?"
"No. See here!" replied Idris, plucking a weed beside her. "Samphire!
It never grows below salt water. We are quite safe."
Mademoiselle Rivière clasped her hands: her lips moved, and Idris knew
that she was breathing a silent prayer.
"You have saved my life," she said, looking up at him with gratitude
shining from her eyes. "How can I thank you?"
Though he had seen Mademoiselle Rivière but once, and then for a moment
only: though this was his first time of conversing with her, Idris
intuitively felt that she was the one woman in the world for him: and
that though happiness might be possible apart from her, such happiness
would be but the shadow of that derivable from her undivided love.
Fortune was certainly favouring him. He would have given half his
wealth to any one who could have brought about such a situation as
the present, and lo! the event had happened naturally, of itself,
and without any premeditation on his part. It was wonderful! Many
hours might pass ere he and Mademoiselle Rivière could quit the spot
where they now were. He determined to make good use of this golden
opportunity. He would exert all his powers to gain a place, if not
in her affection, at least in her friendship, so that her feeling on
parting from him should contain something of regret.
"How can I thank you?" she repeated.
"By not thanking me. How did the accident happen?"
"My hat was the cause of it all. I was standing on the edge of the
cliff when the wind carried it off to the sands below. Not wishing to
return home bare-headed, I clambered down 'The Stairs of David' after
it. The ladder gave way, and I fell. A sudden stop, and I remember no
more."
"It was well the ground at the foot of the cliff was soft sand," said
Idris.
"It was well, as you say," replied Mademoiselle Rivière with a shiver.
"I shall never forget the sensation of falling through the air."
"Does your ankle still pain you?" Idris asked, observing that she
shrank from placing her left foot on the ground.
"A little," she smiled.
"You are sure it is not dislocated--broken?"
"O no; it is merely a sprain. How long shall we have to remain here?"
she added.
This was a question that Idris himself had been considering. It
appeared that Mademoiselle Rivière, on setting out for her walk, had
not told any one of the direction she had intended to take: Idris had
been similarly negligent. Hence it was very unlikely that men from
Ormsby would come cruising along the shore in boats to search for them.
To scale the precipice was out of the question. To shout for aid would
be of little avail, for as the cliff above them was lofty, and the
highroad ran a considerable distance from its edge, there was little
probability that their voices would be heard. Their position rendered
it impossible to make any signals that would be visible at Ormsby, that
town being situated just behind the cliff that formed one extremity of
the bay.
"I fear," said Idris, after considering all these things, "that our
captivity is dependent upon the good graces of the tide."
"And the tide will be several hours in turning," said Mademoiselle
Rivière. "Well, I suppose I must play the philosopher, and accept the
situation. It is certainly better to be here than under the waves."
If her beauty charmed Idris, her manner, pleasant and without
affectation, charmed him still more.
So interested had he been in her companionship that he had hitherto
failed to notice that the face of the overhanging cliff was pierced by
a deep cavern, the mouth of which was on a level with the top of their
rocky platform.
"What is this?" he said, stepping forward to take a closer view. "A
cave, as I live. A coast-guard's place for watching smugglers, I
suppose."
"That must be the 'Hermit's Cave,'" said Mademoiselle Rivière, turning
her eyes upon it, "so named from an ancient recluse who is said to have
made it his home. I am told that the chair in which he sat is still to
be seen, cut out of the solid rock."
"Excellent! You must occupy that seat, mademoiselle. It will be more
pleasant there than sitting out here upon this slippery windy rock."
She rose, glad of the proposed change, for the wind was playing
confusion with her hair. Observing her wince, as her left foot touched
the ground, Idris said, with a smile:--
"You had better let me carry you."
Lorelie coloured, neither assenting nor opposing. Since Idris had
carried her once it would be prudery to resist now, and so, knowing
that she must either accept his aid or else crawl to the spot upon her
hands and knees, she entrusted herself to his arms, and in this way
gained the entrance of the cave, which was of considerable extent, and
strewn with logs, planks, and odd pieces of timber.
"Where does all this wood come from?" she asked.
"Wreckage-timber, probably; doubtless placed here by the coast-guard to
be used as firing in cold weather. See! here is the hermit's seat you
spoke of," said Idris, indicating a piece of rock jutting from the wall
of the cave near its entrance. It had been hollowed out by art into the
rude resemblance of an armchair, and within this recess Idris placed
his companion.
"I hope you dined well before setting out," he said, "for our grotto
offers nothing in the shape of commissariat."
"I am somewhat thirsty," replied Lorelie, as she turned her eyes upon a
tiny spring of water, which, issuing from a fissure in the wall of the
cave, flowed silently down into a depression hollowed out in the floor,
just beside the hermit's seat; then, overflowing from the basin into
a groove of its own making, the water became lost in an orifice a few
feet distant.
"Here is a remedy for thirst," said Idris. "The daily drink of our
hermit. 'The waters of Siloah that go softly,' was perhaps his name for
it. The eremite's crockeryware having perished, how do you propose to
drink?"
"With Nature's cup," smiled Lorelie, curving her hands into the shape
of a bowl.
Mindful of her ankle she slid cautiously upon her knees and bent, a
charming picture, over the pool.
"How clear and still," she murmured. "Its surface is like a mirror."
"Then do not gaze too long upon it, lest you meet the fate of
Narcissus."
"Narcissus?" she repeated, looking up at him with inquiring eyes.
"He died from the reflection of his own loveliness."
Idris regretted his words almost in the very moment of their utterance,
for he could tell by the sudden clouding of her face that she was
averse to the language of gallantry. Clearly she was not a woman to
be won by empty compliment, and he resolved to steer clear of such a
quicksand. He was glad to observe that when she had resumed her seat
the pleasant smile was again on her lip.
Attentive to every variation in her countenance he began to discern two
moods in Lorelie Rivière: the one vivacious and sprightly, and this
seemed to be her original disposition: the other, pensive and sad, the
result, so he judged, of some secret sorrow.
He longed to know more of this fair lady, slighted by Beatrice; the
lady who had once lived at Nantes in the very house that fronted the
scene of the murder of Duchesne, that murder for which his father had
been condemned: the lady who was erecting in St. Oswald's Churchyard a
marble cross inscribed with an epitaph that seemed almost applicable to
his father's case: the lady whose playing upon the organ had wrought so
weird an effect upon his mind.
All these things contributed to invest Lorelie Rivière with a charming
air of mystery, but Idris recognized that the time was not yet ripe to
press for confidences.
Dragging a few logs forward he disposed them so as to form a seat for
himself near the entrance of the cavern, remarking as he did so:--
"We must not forget to look out for passing boats."
The afternoon sun was filling the air with a dusky golden glow. The
waves dancing and sparkling below the mouth of the cave flashed
emerald and sapphire hues upon its roof, irradiating the place with an
ever-changing light.
To Idris the situation was a charming tableau, a living idyll, and one
that was rendered all the more pleasant by contrast with their recent
perilous position. Mademoiselle Rivière trembled as she reflected on
what might have happened but for the chance passing of this stranger.
Strange that until this moment it had not occurred to her to ask his
name!
"You know my name," she said, "but I have yet to learn yours."
"My name is Breakspear," he replied, withholding his true patronymic;
and feeling as he spoke a sense of shame of having to deceive her even
in so small a matter; "Idris Breakspear."
"_Idris!_" she said, with a sudden start, as if the name had touched
some chord in her memory. "Idris! It is a somewhat uncommon name."
"We will say, then, that its rarity is a point in its favour," smiled
Idris, who had observed her start, and wondered at the cause.
"Have we not met before, Mr. Breakspear?"
"I saw you two days ago in the Ravengar Chantry," he replied. He did
not say, as he might truthfully have said, that during these two days
he had been thinking of little else but that brief meeting. "Miss
Ravengar and I," he continued, "had been listening to your recital
on the organ. I must congratulate you on your skill as a musician,
Mademoiselle Rivière. May I ask the name of the last chant you played?
Was it taken from some oratorio, or was it your own improvisation?"
"The last chant?" repeated Lorelie, with a pensive air. "Let me think?
What was it? Did it run like this?"
And in a sweet silvery tone she trilled off a bar which Idris
immediately recognized as a part of the refrain that had been played by
her.
"That is the 'Ravengar Funeral March,'" explained Lorelie. "Its origin
goes far back into the depths of the dark ages, tradition affirming
that it is the composition of an ancient scald, and was first chanted
at the burial of the old Norse chieftain who founded the Ravengar
family. It has been the custom to play it at the funeral of every
Ravengar, though he would be a bold person who should say that the tune
has not undergone variations in its descent to our times. The unknown
minstrel with whom it originated was a genius, a mediæval Mozart. Could
you not fancy that you heard the tread of numerous feet in procession,
the clang of shield and spear, the groans of warriors, the plaintive
weeping of women?"
"It certainly _was_ a weird requiem; it moved me as no other piece of
music ever has."
And then, absorbed in a new idea, Idris forgot for the moment the
presence of even Lorelie Rivière.
"What are these Ravengars to me," he thought, "or am I to them, that
their Funeral Chant should produce in me such clairvoyant sensations?"
This question was succeeded by another. How had Mademoiselle Rivière
become familiar with this requiem? As if in answer to his thoughts
Lorelie remarked:--
"I heard Viscount Walden play it once in Venice: he gave it as a
specimen of the weird and uncanny in music. It so took my fancy that I
did not rest till I had obtained a copy of it."
It was somewhat disquieting to learn that she had met Lord Walden
abroad, and that she was on terms of sufficient friendship to beg from
him a copy of music. Had this friendship changed into something deeper?
Was he to regard Lord Walden in the light of a rival? Had Mademoiselle
Rivière come to Ormsby in order to be near the viscount? In saving her
from being overwhelmed by the tide Idris had doubtless gained a high
place in her favour, but then gratitude is not love, and Ravenhall and
a coronet were powerful attractions.
"Do you often play at St. Oswald's Church?" he asked, after an interval
of silence.
"Yes. I find a charm in its 'dim religious light.'"
"And the quietude of the place," said Idris, "is also favourable to the
study of mediæval historians--_Paulus Diaconus_, for example."
"Ah! Mr. Breakspear," she said, "so it was _you_ who carried off my
book from the organ-loft. I guessed as much when I went back, and found
it gone. You must not forget to return it, for I value it highly. Now,
confess, that you have wondered why I, a woman, should take to poring
over that old Lombard historian?"
"Curiosity is not confined to the sex with whom it is supposed to have
originated," smiled Idris, "and I am willing to admit, mademoiselle,
that I _have_ been puzzled. The book does not belong to the style of
literature usually patronized by ladies."
"_Merci!_ I regard that last remark as a compliment. Well, I will
explain the mystery, if you will promise to keep the matter a secret."
And upon Idris giving his assurance, she continued: "I am trying
to write a poetical play, a tragedy relating to the times of the
Italo-Lombard kings, and as I do not wish to commit anachronisms, it
behoves me to study the historical authorities in the original."
"I understand," answered Idris, his opinion of Lorelie rising higher
than ever: besides being a musician and a Latin scholar, she was also a
poetess! "And what are you going to call your play?"
"'The Fatal Skull,'" she replied. "You look surprised, Mr. Breakspear.
Is there already a play of that name?"
"I have never heard of it."
"Because one must not borrow another author's title, is it not so?"
"_The Fatal Skull!_" Idris could not but think it a curious coincidence
that Lorelie's drama should bear such a title, when he himself at this
time was much interested in a skull, to wit, that of Orm the Viking.
"Why so weird a title, mademoiselle?"
"Because it is appropriate to the leading incident in the piece: for
the play turns on the famous historic banquet at which the Lombard
Queen Rosamond was forced by her husband to drink from her father's
skull. So now you understand, Mr. Breakspear," she went on, "that
wherever the words 'Fatal Skull,' or the initials 'F. S.,' occur in the
margin of my book, they mean that there is something in the passage
thus marked capable of being worked into my drama."
"And when do you intend to publish it?"
"Not yet: perhaps never. I write, not for fame, but for my own
pleasure."
"Do not say that, mademoiselle. If one has noble thoughts the world
will be the better for hearing them. I hope, therefore, to see the day
when your work will be published: nay, more, I hope to see it acted."
"It is kind of you to say so," she murmured. The light of pleasure
in her eyes, and the colour mantling her cheek, so enhanced her
beauty that it was with difficulty the impulsive Idris could repress
the temptation of telling her of his love. But, even as he watched,
the look of pleasure faded from her face, and there succeeded the
melancholy air that he had previously noticed, an air that said almost
as plainly as words, "I am forgetting myself: it is not for me to be
glad."
Yet the smile returned to her lip when Idris ventured upon a suggestion.
"I see neither boat nor vessel within hail," he remarked, glancing over
the sea. "We have several hours yet before us. Now in the Christmas
tales, you know, when the stage-coach passengers are snowed up at
the country-inn, or the sea-voyagers wrecked on the lonely isle, they
always beguile the time by story-telling. It's the orthodox thing to
do. Suppose we imitate them."
"A good idea! and," added Lorelie archly, "it becomes the mover of the
proposition to take the initiative."
"Caught in the net I was preparing for another!" smiled Idris. "I was
hoping to hear you recite some portions of your play. But that will
come later. Well, mademoiselle, what shall my story be?"
"You said a while ago that you have led a somewhat adventurous life,
and that you once took part in a battle. I call for some of your
adventures."
"You flatter my vanity. A man's self is an insidious theme. The
_Apologia pro meâ vitâ_ is rarely to be trusted, the author being
naturally prone to magnify his virtues, and minimize his faults. Always
receive the autobiography _cum grano salis_."
"Very well," replied Lorelie, with a smile irresistible in its
witchery. "Begin your story, and I will supply the _granum salis_ as
you proceed."
Vain was it for Idris to protest. She was not to be deterred from her
purpose of hearing something of his personal history; and, accordingly,
after due reflection, he proceeded to relate some of his experiences in
the Græco-Turkish War of '97, in which he had taken a part, in common
with some other Englishmen of adventurous spirit.
Idris was master of a certain natural eloquence, an eloquence very
effective in the case of an imaginative maiden. At any rate Lorelie
seemed to take a deep interest in his words. Never before had he seen
so attentive a listener. Her face, like water lit by the changing
rays of the sun, reflected all the varying expressions on his own
countenance, as he passed from grave to gay, from scene to scene.
A significant incident occurred during the telling of these
reminiscences.
He was relating that on one occasion he had been entrusted by a Greek
commander with the task of conveying a secret dispatch to a village
beyond the enemy's lines. The ordinary route to this place ran
through a mountain-pass, which at that time was carefully guarded by
Bashi-Bazouks. Idris, therefore, determined to scale the face of an
almost perpendicular cliff, and passing, as it were, above the heads of
the watchers, come out in their rear. When he was three-fourths of the
way up the cliff his heart almost leaped into his mouth as he caught
a glimpse of a Bashi-Bazouk, dagger in hand, waiting for him at the
top. The shades of twilight were falling: to descend was impossible: to
go upward was to meet certain death: yet upward he continued to pull
himself, little by little, hoping that by some good fortune he might be
able to outwit the armed watcher. In graphic language he painted his
sensations as none could, save those only who have been in a position.
At this point Lorelie's interest became intense, even painful. So
vivid was her realization of the scene that she seemed at that very
moment to see Idris before her, clinging feebly to the edge of the
cliff in the dusky gloom, with the savage enemy above him dealing the
death-stroke. She leaned forward in her seat with parted lips: then,
quite unconsciously, and all-forgetful of her sprained ankle, she half
rose with her arm extended as if to ward off the coming blow.
"O, but you are _here_," she murmured, realizing her mistake. "How
absurd of me!" and, with a heightened colour, she sank back in
confusion.
"Yes, I am here," replied Idris, his heart leaping with delight at
this proof of her interest in his welfare. "Near the summit of the
cliff was a narrow shelf of rock: on this ledge I lay down and waited,
with my revolver pointing to the night sky. I knew that my gentleman
would peep over again presently to mark my progress. He did. What the
kites left of him you'll find at the foot of the cliff."
If pleasure at the death of a fellow-mortal be an anti-Christian
feeling, it must be confessed that Lorelie Rivière had little of the
Christian in her at that moment.
Now that he had once entered upon his personal history, she would not
let him quit it, betraying such interest that Idris almost wondered
whether she had a secret motive in wishing to hear his biography.
The most romantic part of his career, however, namely, that relating
to the runic ring and the quest for his father, he carefully reserved,
giving instead an account of his travels through Europe, and recalling
many a curious legend from "out-of-the-way" places.
Long ere Lorelie was sated with these reminiscences the first stars
of night glimmered in the blue air above: and, that nothing might be
wanting to complete a romantic situation, the moon, rising in all
her glory from the depth of ocean, silvered with its radiance the
entrance of the cave. The light passed within bringing into relief the
statuesque pose of Lorelie's figure. It gleamed on her wealth of raven
hair, and hallowed her face with new and mystic beauty, as, with her
cheek pillowed on her hands, she sat attentive to Idris, drinking in
his words as the fabled Oriental bird is said to drink the moonbeams.
So lovely and interested a listener might well have turned the head of
the frostiest hermit. What wonder, then, that the one thought in Idris'
mind at this moment was:--"O that this might last forever!"