Calantha endeavoured to rouse herself. She felt as if in a dream, and, hastily advancing to the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, she there beheld a youth, for he had not the form or the look of manhood, leaning against the trunk of a tree, playing at intervals upon a flute, or breathing, as if from a suffering heart, the sweet melody of his untaught song. He started not when she approached:—he neither saw nor heard her—so light was her airy step, so fixed were his eyes and thoughts. She gazed for one moment upon his countenance—she marked it. It was one of those faces which, having once beheld, we never afterwards forget. It seemed as if the soul of passion had been stamped and printed upon every feature. The eye beamed into life as it threw up its dark ardent gaze, with a look nearly of inspiration, while the proud curl of the upper lip expressed haughtiness and bitter contempt; yet, even mixed with these fierce characteristic feelings, an air of melancholy and dejection shaded and softened every harsher expression. Such a countenance spoke to the heart, and filled it with one vague yet powerful interest—so strong, so undefinable, that it could not easily be overcome. Calantha felt the power, not then alone, but evermore. She felt the empire, the charm, the peculiar charm, those features—that being must have for her. She could have knelt and prayed to heaven to realize the dreams, to bless the fallen angel in whose presence she at that moment stood, to give peace to that soul, upon which was plainly stamped the heavenly image of sensibility and genius. The air he had played was wild and plaintive: he changed it to one more harsh. She now distinctly heard the words he sung: This heart has never stoop’d its pride To slavish love, or woman’s wile; But, steel’d by war, has oft defy’d Her craftiest art and brightest smile. This mind has trac’d its own career, Nor follow’d blind, where others trod; Nor, mov’d by love, or hope or fear, E’er bent to man, or worshipp’d God. Then hope not now to touch with love, Or in its chains a heart to draw, All earthly spells have fail’d to move; And heav’n’s whole terrors cannot awe: A heart, that like some mountain vast, And cold with never-melting snow, Sees nought above, nor deigns to cast A look away on aught below. An emotion of interest—something she could not define, even to herself, had impelled Calantha to remain till the song was ended: a different feeling now prompted her to retire in haste. She fled; nor stopped, till she again found herself opposite the castle gate, where she had been left by her companions.