"Pshaw,--nonsense!" he went on, pursuing his reflections; "'the island, the bonny bright island,' is a very fine thing, but what do I care about it? I wonder if Elsie spoke the truth about the match? If I thought the girl's heart were not in it.--Pshaw again! She is the merriest-hearted creature I ever saw,--only of quick feelings, and strangely attached to the memory of her brother: her eyes always fill when the Captain talks of him--the very name makes the tears start; and good heaven! how superb her eyes look, with tears in them! But then the Captain is poor, and she knows it,--bent upon the match, and she knows that, too; and young Falconer is a soldier, and a handsome fellow, and she knows that, too. And he was here! I wish I had seen him. He has wealth, too--so have _I_; he is gay and handsome--I am neither sour nor ugly.--'Sdeath! where am I getting? I will find out, at least, what are her feelings towards him: if her heart be not in the match, why then.----Could any man stand by and see such a saint of heaven bartered away, sacrificed--sold to tears and captivity?" Here he fell to musing again, and again his spirits seeking that vent to melancholy, he began to hum an air, extremely mournful, the words of which were in unison with his reflections. I. Darkly the wretch that in prison is pining, Turns to the dim, dismal grating his eye; Darkly he looks on the day-star that's shining, The far-soaring eagles that float in the sky. In the pale cheek, so furrow'd and wet, The story of anguish is spoken; The sun of his hope it is set, The wing of his spirit is broken. Darkly the wretch, &c. II. Heart! in thy dreary captivity heaving, The fate of the poor, hopeless pris'ner is thine-- To look through a grate at the world thou art leaving, And slowly the long silent sorrow resign. But the vial is emptied at last, The bolts have been shot from the quiver, And the future has buried the past, With the tears of the captive, for ever. Heart! in thy dreary, &c.