Her companion made no reply, the Persian often uttered dark sayings that were totally beyond his comprehension. Possibly she believed in the transmigration of souls, and was alluding to a former existence. “Mine are but spirits, whereas to you these people are real flesh and blood,” she resumed. “You were one of them but three months ago. Think well ere you break with your past, and kill and bury youth. Lo, you grow old _already_! Let me plead for youth, and love. Heaven has opened to me to-day. She,” lowering her voice to a whisper, “is among those--I have seen her--she is there below.” “I know,” he answered, also in a low voice. “Then why do you not seek her--so young, so fair, so good? Oh! have you forgotten her sweet smile, her charming eyes? Love, real love, comes but once! Go now and find her.” Mark shook his head with emphatic negation. “What heart of stone!” she cried passionately. “Truly I will go myself and fetch her here. I----But no--I dare not,” and she covered her face with her hands. “Do not add your voice to my own mad inclinations. It is all over between us. To meet her and to part again would give her needless pain.” “Ah! again the music,” murmured the Persian, as the band suddenly struck up a weird haunting waltz, which her companion well remembered--they had played it at the bachelors’ ball. “Music,” she continued, clenching her two hands, “of any kind has a sore effect on me. It tears my heart from my very body, and yet I love it, yea, though it transport me to----” She paused, unable to finish the sentence. Her lips trembled, her great dark eyes dilated, and she suddenly burst into a storm of tears. The sound of her wild, loud, despairing sobs, actually floated down and penetrated to the ears of a merry couple who were strolling at large, and now stood immediately below, little guessing that another pair on the hillside were sadly contemplating a scene of once familiar but now lost delights, like two poor wandering spirits. “Surely,” said Mrs. Merryfeather, “I heard a human voice, right up there above us. It sounded just like a woman weeping--crying as if her heart was broken.” “Oh, impossible!” scoffed the man. “Hearts in these days are warranted unbreakable, like toughened glass.” “Listen! There it is again!” interrupted the lady excitedly. “Not a bit of it, my dear Mrs. Merry; and your sex would not feel flattered if they heard that you had mistaken the cry of a _wild beast_, for a woman’s voice! I assure you, on my word of honour, that it is nothing but a hyena.” CHAPTER XLII. BY THE OLD RIFLE-RANGE.