and galloped away in pursuit of
a fortune wild as his soul.

Though the year was in decay, summer had lent this night to autumn, it
was so soft and sweet. The moonbeam fell brightly upon Ducie Bower, and
the illumined salon contrasted effectively with the natural splendour
of the exterior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a brilliant fete
which had been given at a Saxon palace, and which some circumstances of
similarity recalled to his recollection. Ferdinand could not speak,
but found himself unconsciously pressing Henrietta Temple's arm to his
heart. The Saxon palace brought back to Miss Temple a wild melody which
had been sung in the gardens on that night. She asked her father if he
recollected it, and hummed the air as she made the enquiry. Her gentle
murmur soon expanded into song. It was one of those wild and natural
lyrics that spring up in mountainous countries, and which seem to mimic
the prolonged echoes that in such regions greet the ear of the pastor
and the huntsman.

Oh! why did this night ever have an end!

CHAPTER XI.

_A Morning Walk_.

IT WAS solitude that brought despair to Ferdinand Armine. The moment he
was alone his real situation thrust itself upon him; the moment he
had quitted the presence of Henrietta Temple he was as a man under the
influence of music when the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of all
his inspiration failed him; this last night at Ducie was dreadful. Sleep
was out of the question; he did not affect even the mimicry of retiring,
but paced up and down his room the whole night, or flung himself, when
exhausted, upon a restless sofa. Occasionally he varied these monotonous
occupations, by pressing his lips to the drawings which bore her
name; then relapsing into a profound reverie, he sought some solace in
recalling the scenes of the morning, all her movements, every word
she had uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. In vain he
endeavoured to find consolation in the fond belief that he was not
altogether without interest in her eyes. Even the conviction that his
passion was returned, in the situation in which he was plunged, would,
however flattering, be rather a source of fresh anxiety and perplexity.
He took a volume from the single shelf of books that was slung against
the wall; it was a volume of Corinne. The fervid eloquence of the
poetess sublimated his passion; and without disturbing the tone of
his excited mind, relieved in some degree