Yet tears will flow forth while of hope I am singing; Still despair her dark shadow is over me flinging; But, when he’s far away, I will pluck the wild flower On bank and on brae At the still, moonlight hour; And I will twine for him a wreath Low in the fairy’s dell; Methought I heard the night-wind breathe That solemn word: ‘Farewell!’ [4] 4 The above poem appears to have been composed more than twelve months before the story in which it appears. In _The Red Cross Knight and Other Poems_, 1917 (a little book printed for private circulation only, in an edition limited to thirty copies), the poem was printed for Mr. T. J. Wise from a manuscript dated July 1831.—C. W. H. When the lady had concluded her song I stepped from my place of concealment, and was instantly perceived by the noble youth (whom, of course, every reader will have recognised as the Marquis of Douro). He gave me a courteous welcome, and invited me to proceed with him to his country palace, as it was now wearing late. I willingly accepted the invitation, and, in a short time, we arrived there. It is a truly noble structure, built in the purest style of Grecian architecture, situated in the midst of a vast park, embosomed in richly wooded hills, perfumed with orange and citron groves, and watered by a branch of the Gambia, almost equal in sight to the parent stream. The magnificence of the interior is equal to that of the outside. There is an air of regal state and splendour throughout all the lofty domed apartments which strikes the spectator with awe for the lord of so imposing a residence. The marquis has a particular pride in the knowledge that he is the owner of one of the most splendid, select, and extensive libraries now in the possession of any individual. His picture and statue galleries likewise contain many of the finest works, both of the ancient and modern masters, particularly the latter, of whom the marquis is a most generous and munificent patron. In his cabinet of curiosities I observed a beautiful casket of wrought gold. At my request he opened it and produced the contents, viz. a manuscript copy of that rare work, ‘The Autobiography of Captain Leaf.’ It was written on a roll of vellum, but much discoloured and rendered nearly illegible by time. To my eager inquiries respecting the manner in which he had obtained so inestimable a treasure, he replied, with a smile: ‘That question I must decline to answer. It is a secret with which I alone am acquainted.’