“The fishermen were generally occupied in building or refitting boats for the approaching expedition, in which they were assisted by our hardy comrade, while Osman and myself were left to occupy or amuse ourselves as we chose. I remarked the gradual influence he was gaining over the unconscious heart of the young Ulea. I mourned over it, for I feared that he was incapable of a deep and lasting attachment. I saw that her family were blinded by their artless confidence, to the insidious poison that threatened to destroy their happiness. I could not bear to be the first to interrupt their peace. What should I do? I revolved in my mind the whole affair, and at last resolved that I would watch the conduct of Osman narrowly, and without being suspected, penetrate the secret of his soul. With this design I mingled more frequently in his pleasures, joined the little circle when he descanted on the scenes of his early life—beautiful Italy! whose charms were always associated with female loveliness, whose atmosphere breathed of love. This was the theme of his glowing narration, and his dark eye seemed to catch inspiration from the kindling blush of Ulea. After he had sung one or two of the most melting Italian airs, I was roused from my ruminating fit by Ulea's remarking—‘Steinkoff has grown very silent of late. Osman's songs, I believe, make him sad.’ ‘Quite otherwise,’ I replied, ‘and if he will listen, I will sing a song of the olden time myself.’ They exclaimed in one voice, ‘he will, he shall!’ ‘No need for compulsion,’ he said, ‘I will hear it with pleasure.’ Without prelude I began— Soon as the wintry blasts were o'er, The maiden roamed the vale, To hear the cheerful robin pour His sweet notes on the gale. Then he, the faithless-hearted knight, Told of his own lov'd bowers, Where birds sing in the chequered light To the bright opening flowers. And when the light of parting day Gleamed on the distant hill, She climbed the steep and rocky way, Or lingered by the rill. Then he, the faithless-hearted knight, Sung of that region bland, Where sunset paints with golden light, The skies, the sea, the land. When down the long, long night let fall Her curtains o'er the earth, And nature lay in silence, all Beneath the pall of death. Then he, the faithless-hearted knight, Spoke of his country fair— How the moon walks heaven in silv'ry light, And the breath of flowers, is the air. And he whispered the tale of love in her ear, And the maiden, believing his truth, Left the home of her childhood, but sorrow and care Fled with her, and faded her youth.