is long
confinement; and in how much worse case is he!

I have tried to occupy myself, that I may keep my thoughts from dwelling
forever on our unhappy state. In the past six months I have so far
mastered the Spanish tongue that now I can converse in it with more ease
than in the French. The Governor declares that I have the true
intonation; and even Dona Orosia admits that I have shown some aptitude.
I care nothing for it as a mere accomplishment; but I hope that the
knowledge may be of use if ever we attempt escape. (Though what chance
of escape is there when Mr. Rivers is within stone walls and I have no
means of even holding converse with Mr. Collins?)

I have one other accomplishment that has won me more favour with the
Governor's wife than aught else. She discovered, one day, that I have
some skill with the lute, and a voice not lacking in sweetness; and now
she will have me sing to her by the hour until my throat is weary and I
have to plead for rest.

I had, recently, a conversation with her that has haunted me every hour
since; for it showed me a side of her nature that I had not seen before,
and that leads me to think that under her caprice and petulance there is
a deep purpose hidden.

I had exhausted my list of songs, and as she still demanded more I
bethought me of a curious old ballad I had heard many years ago. The air
eluded me for some while; but my fingers, straying over the strings,
fell suddenly into the plaintive melody; with it, the words too came
back to me.

I bade my love fareweel, wi' tears;
He bade fareweel to me.
"How sall I pass the lang, lang years?"
"I maun be gane," quo' he.

The tear-draps frae mine een did rin
Like water frae a spring;
But while I grat, my love gaed in
To feast and reveling!

The tear-draps frae mine een did start
Salt as the briny tide:
Sae sair my grief, sae fu' my heart,
I wept a river wide.

Adoon that stream my man did rove,
And crossed the tearfu' sea.
O whaur'll I get a leal true love
To bide at hame wi' me?

The lang, lang years they winna pass;
My lord is still awa'.
Mayhap he loves a fairer lass--
O wae the warst ava!

How sall I wile my lover hame?
I'll drink the tearfu' seas!
My red mou' to their briny faem,
I'll drain them to the lees!

Then gin he comes na hameward soon
His ain true love to wed,
I'll