"This echo is indeed a wonderful one! It has nineteen distinct repetitions; the first twelve being heard from _this_ side of a valley, which, were it day, I would point out; the other seven, on the opposite side. Tradition tells us, that nineteen castles in ancient times, stood near the spot; that each of these laid claim to the echo; and that, as it passes the ruin, where once dwelt Sigismund of the Bloody Hand, the chief springs from the round ivied tower--waves his sword thrice, the drops of blood falling from its hilt as he does so--and proclaims aloud, that whosoever dare gainsay"-- "I am sorry to leave you," interrupted Sir Henry, as he shook him off, "particularly at this interesting part of the story; but it is late, and my brother feels unwell, and I wish to go to the cottage to call our guide." Delmé was pursued by the echo's elucidator, who being duly remunerated, allowed Sir Henry to accompany the guide towards the boat. George was not standing where he had left him. Delmé stepped forward, and nearly fell over a prostrate body. It was the motionless one of his brother. He gave a shriek of anguish; flew towards the house, and in a moment, was again on the spot, bearing the priest's torch. He raised his brother's head. One hand was extended over the body, and fell to the earth like a clod of clay as it was. He gazed on that loved face. In that gaze, how much was there to arrest his attention. On those features, death had stamped his seal. But there was a thought, which bore the ascendancy over this in Delmé's mind. It was a thought which rose involuntarily,--one for which he could not _then_ account, and cannot now. For some seconds, it swayed his every emotion. He felt the conviction--deep, undefinable--that there was indeed a soul, to "shame the doctrine of the Sadducee." He deemed that on those lineaments, this was the language forcibly engraven! The features were still and fixed:--the brow alone revealed a dying sense of pain. The lips! how purple were they! and the eye, that erst flashed so freely:--the yellow film of death had dimmed its lustre. The legs were apart, and one of the feet was in the lake. Henry tried to chafe his brother's forehead. In vain! in vain! he knew it was in vain! He let the head fall, and buried his face in his hands. He turned reproachfully, to gaze on that cloudless Heaven, where the moon, and the brilliant stars, and the falling meteor, seemed to hold a bright and giddy festival. He clasped his hands in mute agony. For a brief moment--his dark eye seeming to invite His wrath--he dared to arraign the mercy of God, who had taken what he had made. It was but for a moment he thus thought. He had watched that light of life, until its existence was almost identified with his own. He had seen it flicker--had viewed it reillumed--blaze with increased brilliancy--fade--glimmer--and fade. Now! where was it?