The inmates exhibited a striking contrast to the ruined abode. The echoes did not awake to the slow step of the aged, but to the bounding tread of the young. The wind might rave around in fury, but, at intervals, sweet voices were heard, joining in the music of the heart. Sombre was the light which entered the apartments, but there was no snowy head on which it could fall; shining was every brow, and clustering the ringlets waving thereon. On the rudely-framed seat, by the porch, no old man sat, like a dial, to point out time’s flight, but a beautiful pair, with a little boy sporting before them. William Morden, and Emily Clifton, were the only survivors of two noble families. The time of our Legend is six years after their marriage, when their love had been pledged and crowned by the birth of a boy. Sweet was their domestic bliss, but darkness and death are prepared to enter upon the scene. The curse of witchcraft is about to fall upon the holy beings, in all its horrors and pollutions. The Chronicler shudders, as tradition leads him to their tragic fate, and as it gleams upon the hellish causes. The fair creatures have, in many a dream, for many a long night, been cradled by his side, in beauty and love. Their voices have whispered to him, their faces have smiled upon him, in the mysteries of sleep. And yet he must now awake them to feel the breath of unearthly enmity and power, withering their souls, while serpents are even twined around their shroud! On a calm evening, towards the beginning of summer, Emily was seated in the old hall, expecting the arrival of her husband, who had rode out early that day, to hunt, when he entered, with marks of agitation on his countenance. “William!” she exclaimed, as she arose to embrace him, “thou art sad. It cannot be for want of success in the chase; you would not dare”--and she gave him a playful blow on the cheek with her little hand--“to appear before your wife so sorrowful, and with no better excuse. But, love, you smile not. William, are you wounded? Have you been thrown from your horse?” “No, Emily,” was the reply, “I am safe, but my horse, in passing the cave of which you are so much afraid, sunk down, as if exhausted, though a moment before, he seemed capable of the greatest exertion. Thus is it,” he continued, as he yielded to his wife, who forced him down to a seat, whilst she leaned over him, “our cattle have died, though green is the meadow on which they grazed. And now, my favourite steed--aye, the very one, Emily, whose neck arched so proudly beneath your gentle touch, after he had borne me to your abode, where I wooed and won you as my bride, is now, I fear, stiffening in death. My servant shook his head, as I left Ranger to his care.”