in
passing. He would set it in every possible light, and argue on it with
all the self-pleasing, self-teasing logic of a lover.

The country around him was enough to awaken that voluptuousness of
feeling so favourable to the growth of passion. The window of the
tower rose above the trees of the romantic valley of the Darro, and
looked down upon some of the loveliest scenery of the Vega, where
groves of citron and orange were refreshed by cool springs and brooks
of the purest water.

The Xenel and the Darro wound their shining streams along the plain,
and gleamed from among its bowers. The surrounding hills were covered
with vineyards, and the mountains, crowned with snow, seemed to melt
into the blue sky. The delicate airs that played about the tower were
perfumed by the fragrance of myrtle and orange-blossoms, and the ear
was charmed with the fond warbling of the nightingale, which, in these
happy regions, sings the whole day long. Sometimes, too, there was the
idle song of the muleteer, sauntering along the solitary road; or the
notes of the guitar, from some group of peasants dancing in the shade.
All these were enough to fill the head of the young lover with poetic
fancies; and Antonio would picture to himself how he could loiter
among those happy groves, and wander by those gentle rivers, and love
away his life with Inez.

He felt at times impatient at his own weakness, and would endeavour to
brush away these cobwebs of the mind. He would turn his thoughts, with
sudden effort, to his occult studies, or occupy himself in some
perplexing process; but often, when he had partially succeeded in
fixing his attention, the sound of Inez's lute, or the soft notes of
her voice, would come stealing upon the stillness of the chamber, and,
as it were, floating round the tower. There was no great art in her
performance; but Antonio thought he had never heard music comparable
to this. It was perfect witchcraft to hear her warble forth some of
her national melodies; those little Spanish romances and Moorish
ballads, that transport the hearer, in idea, to the banks of the
Guadalquivir, or the walls of the Alhambra, and make him dream of
beauties, and balconies, and moonlight serenades.

Never was poor student more sadly beset than Antonio. Love is a
troublesome companion in a study, at the best of tunes; but in the
laboratory of an alchymist, his intrusion is terribly disastrous.
Instead of attending to the retorts and crucib