It was long past midnight: another hour, and Megalena must be Cavigni’s. This idea rendered Wolfstein callous to every sting of conscience; and he eagerly awaited an opportunity when he might, unperceived, infuse poison into the goblet of one who confided in him. Ginotti sat opposite to Wolfstein: his arms were folded, and his gaze rested fixedly upon the fearless countenance of the murderer. Wolfstein shuddered when he beheld the brow of the mysterious Ginotti contracted, his marked features wrapped in inexplicable mystery. All were now heated by wine, save the wily villain who destined murder; and the awe-inspiring Ginotti, whose reservedness and mystery, not even the hilarity of the present hour could dispel. Conversation appearing to flag, Cavigni exclaimed, “Steindolph, you know some old German stories; cannot you tell one, to deceive the lagging hours?” Steindolph was famed for his knowledge of metrical spectre tales, and the gang were frequently wont to hang delighted on the ghostly wonders which he related. “Excuse, then, the mode of my telling it,” said Steindolph, “and I will with pleasure. I learnt it whilst in Germany; my old grandmother taught it me, and I can repeat it as a ballad.”--“Do, do,” re-echoed from every part of the cavern.--Steindolph thus began: Ballad. I. The death-bell beats! The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell; And the dark monk now Wraps the cowl round his brow, As he sits in his lonely cell. II. And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath, As he lists to the fearful lay Which the ghosts of the sky, As they sweep wildly by, Sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay. III. But that hour is past; And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark monk’s brain. Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush’d silent and fast: And he strove to suppress them in vain. IV. Then his fair cross of gold he dash’d on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear. Delight is in store For her evermore; But for me is fate, horror, and fear. V. Then his eyes wildly roll’d, When the death-bell toll’d, And he raged in terrific woe. And he stamp’d on the ground, But when ceased the sound Tears again began to flow. VI. And the ice of despair Chill’d the wide throb of care, And he sat in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill. VII. Then he knelt in his cell:-- And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agonized pain. And he pray’d to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must for ever remain. VIII.