It was a moment of enchantment! And as my eye became accustomed to the sudden gloom, the whole horizon appeared changed. It was not blackness that veiled the sky; night wore no sables; but a far-spreading vestment of deep dense blue, without a vapour to dim its intensity—And slowly, beautifully, into this empurpled vault, rose the soft moon, whose silver circle was almost perfect; casting, as she clombe her mysterious path, a long line of light across the channel which glittered like liquid gems. I was still gazing on this glorious spectacle, motionless, and almost breathless, when I was startled by a deep sigh so near me that I involuntarily started back a pace or two; but, recovering myself on the instant, I looked earnestly in the direction whence it had appeared to come; and, detecting amid the branches the glimmer of a white drapery, I approached the spot, and found myself standing beside a dark-eyed girl, who, seated on a broken column under the overarching boughs of a magnificent cedar tree, was plucking to pieces a branch of orange-blossom which she had torn from her brow. She was dressed in deep mourning, but over her head she had flung the long loose veil of soft white muslin common to her countrywomen—for Mariaritza was a Greek—I scarcely know how to describe her, and I quite despair of making my portrait a likeness, for her’s was not a face that words can mirror faithfully. I had heard much of her before we met—much which had excited alike my curiosity and my interest; and, although since our acquaintance had commenced, that interest had grown almost into affection, my curiosity still remained ungratified. She must have been about two and twenty; her stature was low, and her complexion swarthy; she was limbed like an Antelope; and her coal black hair was braided smoothly across a brow as haughty as that of an Empress. I am not quite sure that she had a good feature in her face, except her eyes; although there have been moments when I have thought her not only handsome, but even radiantly beautiful—And her eyes—they can be described like those of no other person—you could not look into them for a moment without feeling that you were thralled. They were as black as midnight; long, and peculiarly-shaped, set deeply into the head, and somewhat closer together than is usual. But all this is commonplace. It was not the form and fashion of Mariaritza’s eyes which made them so singular—it was their extraordinary and contradictory expression—I have seen them soft and liquid as those of infancy; and, an instant afterwards, almost fierce in their blinding brightness.