as if he strove, by a strong effort, to
shake off the weakness that had crept over him in his narration.

"Think no more of it. Life is short--its thorns are many--let us not
neglect any of its flowers. This is piety and wisdom too; Nature that
meant me to struggle and to toil, gave me, happily, the sanguine heart
and the elastic soul of France; and I have lived long enough to own that
to die young is not an evil. Come, Lord Adrian, let us join my lady ere
you part, if part you must; the moon will be up soon, and Fondi is but
a short journey hence. You know that though I admire not your Petrarch,
you with more courtesy laud our Provencal ballads, and you must hear
Adeline sing one that you may prize them the more. The race of the
Troubadours is dead, but the minstrelsy survives the minstrel!"

Adrian, who scarce knew what comfort to administer to the affliction of
his companion, was somewhat relieved by the change in his mood, though
his more grave and sensitive nature was a little startled at its
suddenness. But, as we have before seen, Montreal's spirit (and this
made perhaps its fascination) was as a varying and changeful sky;
the gayest sunshine, and the fiercest storm swept over it in rapid
alternation; and elements of singular might and grandeur, which,
properly directed and concentrated, would have made him the blessing and
glory of his time, were wielded with a boyish levity, roused into war
and desolation, or lulled into repose and smoothness, with all the
suddenness of chance, and all the fickleness of caprice.

Sauntering down to the beach, the music of Adeline's lute sounded more
distinctly in their ears, and involuntarily they hushed their steps
upon the rich and odorous turf, as in a voice, though not powerful,
marvellously sweet and clear, and well adapted to the simple fashion of
the words and melody, she sang the following stanzas:--

Lay of the Lady of Provence.

1.

Ah, why art thou sad, my heart? Why
Darksome and lonely?
Frowns the face of the happy sky
Over thee only?
Ah me, ah me!
Render to joy the earth!
Grief shuns, not envies, Mirth;
But leave one quiet spot,
Where Mirth may enter not,
To sigh, Ah, me!--
Ah me.

2.

As a bird, though the sky be clear,
Feels the storm lower;
My soul bodes the tempest near,
In the sunny hour;
Ah me, ah me!
Be glad while yet we may!
I bid thee, m