he pressed the small fair hand of Perdita to
his lips; while she, radiant with delight, looked on the still pool, not
truly admiring herself, but drinking in with rapture the reflection there
made of the form of herself and her lover, shewn for the first time in dear
conjunction.

I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured sympathy was theirs, I
enjoyed that of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers of Windsor.
High is the wall and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of
Beauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few more years dwell in
thy native garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire a right to
gather thee. Despair not, nor bid me despair! What must I do now? First I
must seek Adrian, and restore him to her. Patience, gentleness, and untired
affection, shall recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is
mad; energy and courage shall rescue him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.

After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove. Truly
it was a fairy's supper; for though the air was perfumed by the scent of
fruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank--even the beauty of
the night was unobserved; their extasy could not be increased by outward
objects, and I was wrapt in reverie. At about midnight Raymond and I took
leave of my sister, to return to town. He was all gaiety; scraps of songs
fell from his lips; every thought of his mind--every object about us,
gleamed under the sunshine of his mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of
ill-humour and envy.

"Not so," said I, "though I confess that my thoughts are not occupied as
pleasantly as yours are. You promised to facilitate my visit to Adrian; I
conjure you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I long to soothe
--perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best friend. I shall
immediately depart for Dunkeld."

"Thou bird of night," replied Raymond, "what an eclipse do you throw across
my bright thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melancholy ruin, which
stands in mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of a carved
column in a weed-grown field. You dream that you can restore him? Daedalus
never wound so inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has woven
about his imprisoned reason. Nor you, nor any other Theseus, can thread the
labyrinth, to which perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue."

"You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in England."

"And were s