He pauses—starts—what sees he in the brake? What stealthy steps the slumbering echoes wake? “Stand, on thy life!” His knife hath left its sheath, And the poised pistol grimly threatens death. No answer comes—but light as forest fawn Glides a slight female o’er the dewy lawn. Why tempts that tender form the midnight air? What makes she here so fragile and so fair? Had the earth yawned, and from the shades below A demon sprung, it had not moved him so. To earth the deadly weapons wild he dashed; With a strange light his eyes dilated—flashed. “Great God, ’tis she!” the accents trembling rung On his pale lips, when to his breast she sprung; Oh, to that moment what were years of pain, For young life’s glory has returned again! Nor words nor murmur break the night’s profound— Thus still the full heart robs the lips of sound; And save the glances from their eyes that shoot There is no sign—for happiness is mute. VIII. Oh she was beautiful, that lady fair, Though pale her seeming in the midnight air; The slenderest tendrils of the clasping vine Less rarely than her raven ringlets twine; The snowiest that e’er the moon looked on Than her white forehead less serenely shone; The wavy billows in the morning light, Now tinged with red, now melting back to white, Have less of heaven’s serenest dyes than wore That cheek, the tresses dankly clustered o’er. With trembling hand she dashed the locks away, And from her damp brow swept the glittering spray, “And have we met, and most we part—alas! Must this long looked for bliss so quickly pass? Patience, my heart—” and then the accents broke In calmer tones, though hurriedly she spoke; “Gilbert, within Gleneden’s halls to-night Are armed forms that counsel hold of fight; In ruthless hands are weapons bared for strife, I scarce need tell thee what they seek—thy life. ’Tis known to-night in Elva camps thy host, Few, worn, asleep—unarmed and weak the post— Thus ran their words, and much they talked of gold, And chieftains by repentant rebels sold; Unseen myself, I heard their counsel; fear Has winged my steps to warn thee—I am here.” Kindly he smiled—“And didst thou dare, dear maid, For one like me, the midnight forest’s shade? Thy robes are torn and wet, thy parched lips dry. And a wild fire is glancing in thine eye— Poor trembling heart—” and closer still he pressed The exhausted maiden to his throbbing breast. “Ten thousand curses strike the onward hind Who haunts thee thus with cruelty refined! Alas, my Clara! I could weep for thee, But tears have long been strangers unto me. But let him come—” a scornful tone he took, Darkened his brow and deadly grew his look— “’Tis time this hand had wreaked its treasured wrong, And vengeance has delayed her sweets too long; Twice have I crossed him when the fight was red, But fate befriended still his guilty head.