the Belshazzars, and the Holoferneses of their day. There are the princes of the North, the Odins, the Attilas, (named by your church the scourge of God), the Alarics, and all those nameless and name-undeserving barbarians, who, under various titles and claims, ravaged and ruined the earth they came to conquer. There be the sovereigns of the South, and East, and West, the Mahommedans, the Caliphs, the Saracens, the Moors, with all their gorgeous pretensions and ornaments--the crescent, the Koran, and the horse-tail--the trump, the gong, and the atabal, (or to suit it to your Christianised ear, lovely Neophyte!) ‘the noise of the captains, and the shoutings.’ There be also those triple-crowned chieftains of the West, who hide their shorn heads under a diadem, and for every hair they shave, demand the life of a sovereign--who, pretending to humility, trample on power--whose title is, Servant of servants--and whose claim and recognizance is, Lord of lords. Oh! you will not lack company in that bright region, for bright it will be!--and what matter whether its light be borrowed from the gleam of sulphur, or the trembling light of the moon, by which I see you look so pale?”--“I look pale!” said Isidora gasping; “I _feel_ pale! I know not the meaning of your words, but I know it must be horrible. Speak no more of that region, with its pride, its wickedness, and its splendour! I am willing to follow you to deserts, to solitudes, which human step never trod but yours, and where mine shall trace, with sole fidelity, the print of yours. Amid loneliness I was born; amid loneliness I could die. Let me but, wherever I live, and whenever I die, be yours!--and for the place, it matters not, let it be even”---- and she shivered involuntarily as she spoke; “Let it be even”---- “Even--_where_?” asked Melmoth, while a wild feeling of triumph in the devotedness of this unfortunate female, and of horror at the destination which she was unconsciously imprecating on herself, mingled in the question. “Even where you are to be,” answered the devoted Isidora, “let me be there! and there I must be happy, as in the isle of flowers and sun-light, where I first beheld you. Oh! there are no flowers so balmy and roseate as those that once blew there! There are no waters so musical, or breezes so fragrant, as those that I listened to and inhaled, when I thought that they repeated to me the echo of your steps, or the melody of your voice--that _human music_ the first I ever heard, and which, when I cease to hear”---- “You will hear much better!” interrupted Melmoth; “the voices of ten thousand--ten millions of spirits--beings whose tones are immortal, without cessation, without pause, without interval!”--“Oh that will be glorious!” said Isidora, clasping her hands; “the only language I have learned in this new world worth speaking, is the language of music. I caught some imperfect sounds from birds in my first world, but in my second world