And yet it had its melody--melody, to me, of the most vexing power. I should have called the strain a soliloquizing one. It certainly did not seem addressed to any ears. It wanted the continuance of apostrophe. It was capricious. Sometimes the burden fell off suddenly--broken--wholly interrupted--as if the vents had been all simultaneously and suddenly stopped. Anon, it rose again--soul-piercing if not loud--so abruptly, and with an utterance so utterly gone with wo, that you felt sure the poor heart must break with the next breath that came from the laboring and inefficient lungs. A “dying fall” succeeding, seemed to afford temporary relief. It seemed as if tears must have fallen upon the instrument, Its language grew more methodical, more subdued, but not less touching. I fancied, I felt, that, entering into the soul of the musician, I could give the very words to the sentiment which his instrument vainly strove to speak. What else but despair and utter self-abandonment was in that broken language? The full heart over-burdened, breaking, to find a vent for the feelings which it had no longer power to contain. And yet; content to break, breaking with a melancholy sort of triumph which seemed to say-- “Such a death has its own sweetness; love sanctifies the pang to its victim. It is a sort of martyrdom. He who loves truly, though he loves hopelessly, has not utterly loved in vain. The devoted heart finds a joy in the offering, though the Deity withholds his acceptance--though a sudden gust from heaven scatters abroad the rich fruits which the devotee has placed upon the despised and dishonored altar.” Such, I fancied, was the proud language of that melancholy music. Had I been other than I was--nay, had I listened to the burden under other circumstances and in another place--I should most probably have felt nothing but sympathy for the musician. As it was, I can not describe my feelings. All my racking doubts and miseries returned. The tone of triumph which the strain conveyed wrought upon me like an indignity. It seemed to denote that “foregone conclusion” which had been my cause of apprehension so long. Could it be then that Julia was really guilty? Could she have given William Edgerton so much encouragement that triumph and exultation should still mingle with his farewell accents of despair? Ah! what fantasies preyed upon my soul; haunted the smallest movements of my mind; conjured up its spectres, and gave bitterness to its every beverage! When I thought thus of Julia, I rose cautiously from my seat, approached the bed where she was lying, and gazed steadily, though with the wildest thrill of emotion, into her face. I verily believe had she not been sleeping at that moment--sleeping beyond question--she would have shared the fate of “The gentle lady wedded to the Moor.” I was in the mood for desperate things.