Supper and the dance that followed were over; Mrs. Shortridge's great night drew to a close; and many of the company asked for one more melody from the sweet songstress before they dispersed. While turning over her music, Lady Mabel seemed to hesitate in her choice, and L'Isle thought that her hand trembled as she selected a sheet. As the fruit of his musical gleanings in the peninsula, Major Lumley had lately sent her a parcel of old Spanish songs, among which she had found a little piece, a mere fragment, but exquisitely touching in melody and sentiment. Her father had been much taken with it, but no one else had heard it from her lips. Like a volatile perfume, that escapes in the attempt to pour it from one vessel to another, such things defy translation. How, too, Lady Mabel gave it vocal life, may be imagined, not described. She sang it with a truthfulness of feeling that seemed to grow with each succeeding line. For the mere words, we can only find this slender version for the English ear: In joyous hall, now thronged with young and fair, Your roving eye marks every beauty here; I harbor not one doubt or jealous fear; Constant your heart; it beats for me alone. In woodland glade, when armed for sylvan war, You mark the antlered monarch from afar, Your sportive toil cannot my pleasure mar; Constant your heart; it beats for me alone. In summer night, gazing on starry sky, And on yon radiant queen, who rides on high, Your fancy seems to roam, yet hovers nigh; Constant your heart; it beats for me alone. But hark! yon trump! you start as from a dream; From your bright eyes the warrior flashes gleam; All else forgotten. War is now your theme; Constant my heart; it beats for you alone. 'Midst charging hosts, the foremost rank is thine; In saddened bower, the thrilling fear is mine; You glow with ardor, I in sorrow pine; Constant my heart; it beats for you alone. Could L'Isle's vanity be beguiling him? The tremor of her voice, her saddened troubled look, the beaming glances of her eyes, which hovered about him, yet shunned to meet his gaze--they all betrayed her. She was, perhaps half consciously, identifying him with the object of the song. Her audience were delighted, but L'Isle was entranced, and no longer a responsible man. The guests were now fast leaving the house, and Lady Mabel, having much to say to Mrs. Shortridge, was among the last. L'Isle attended her down stairs, and was about to hand her into the old coach, when she drew back timidly. "How dark it is, with that cloud over the moon. I am afraid Antonio Lobo is scarce postillion enough to drive down that steep rough road without accident."