So far had Wolfstein’s proposed toast, at the banquet, gained on the unsuspecting ferociousness of Cavigni, that he accepted the former’s artful tender of service, in the way of persuasion with Megalena, supposing, by Wolfstein’s manner, that they had been cursorily acquainted before. Wolfstein, therefore, entered the apartment of Megalena. At the sight of him Megalena arose from her recumbent posture, and hastened joyfully to meet him; for she remembered that Wolfstein had rescued her from the insults of the banditti, on the eventful evening which had subjected her to their control. “Lovely, adored girl,” he exclaimed, “short is my time: pardon, therefore, the abruptness of my address. The chief has sent me to persuade you to become united to him; but I love you, I adore you to madness. I am not what I seem. Answer me!--time is short.” An indefinable sensation, unfelt before, swelled through the passion-quivering frame of Megalena. “Yes, yes,” she cried, “I will--I love you----” At this instant the voice of Cavigni was heard in the passage. Wolfstein started from his knees, and pressing the fair hand presented to his lips with exulting ardour, departed hastily to give an account of his mission to the anxious Cavigni, who restrained himself in the passage without, and, slightly mistrusting Wolfstein, was about to advance to the door of the cell to listen to their conversation, when Wolfstein quitted Megalena. Megalena, again in solitude, began to reflect upon the scenes which had been lately acted. She thought upon the words of Wolfstein, unconscious wherefore they were a balm to her mind: she reclined upon her wretched pallet. It was now night: her thoughts took a different turn; the melancholy wind sighing along the crevices of the cavern, and the dismal sound of rain, which pattered fast, inspired mournful reflection. She thought of her father,--her beloved father;--a solitary wanderer on the face of the earth; or, most probably, thought she, his soul rests in death. Horrible idea! If the latter, she envied his fate; if the former, she even supposed it preferable to her present abode. She again thought of Wolfstein; she pondered on his last words:--an escape from the cavern: oh, delightful idea! Again her thoughts recurred to her father: tears bedewed her cheeks; she took a pencil, and, actuated by the feelings of the moment, inscribed on the wall of her prison these lines:-- Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,[1] When o’er the dark ether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past? For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echo’d murmurs of death.