In a large hall sat three or four men, whose marked countenances almost announced their profession to be bandits. _One_ of superior and commanding figure, whispering to the rest, and himself advancing with the utmost and most unexpected politeness, accosted the travellers. For the ideas with which the countenance of this man inspired Eloise she in vain endeavoured to account. It appeared to her that she had seen him before; that the deep tone of his voice was known to her; and that eye, scintillating with a coruscation of mingled sternness and surprise, found some counterpart in herself. Of gigantic stature, yet formed in the mould of exactest symmetry, was the figure of the stranger who sate before Eloise. His countenance of excessive beauty even, but dark, emanated with an expression of superhuman loveliness; not that grace which may freely be admired, but acknowledged in the inmost soul by sensations mysterious, and before unexperienced. He tenderly inquired, whether the night air had injured the ladies, and pressed them to partake of a repast which the other three men had prepared; he appeared to unbend a severity, which evidently was habitual, and by extreme brilliancy and playfulness of wit, joined to talents for conversation possessed by few, made Madame de St. Irvyne forget that she was dying; and her daughter, as in rapturous attention she listened to each accent of the stranger, remembered no more that she was about to lose her mother. In the stranger’s society, they almost forgot the lapse of time: a pause in the conversation at last occurred. “Can Ma’am’selle sing?” inquired the stranger. “I can,” replied Eloise; “and with pleasure.” Song. How swiftly through heaven’s wide expanse Bright day’s resplendent colours fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glance With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade! No cloud along the spangled air, Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees! Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, Upon it sits the mournful owl; Along the stillness of the night, Her melancholy shriekings roll. But not alone on Irvyne’s tower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; It gleams upon the ivied bower, It dances in the cascade’s spray. “Ah! why do darkening shades conceal The hour, when man must cease to be?[2] Why may not human minds unveil The dim mists of futurity? “The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despised, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last.”