Elfred Clermont, the son of the wealthy merchant of the village to which we have before alluded, was advanced in his professional studies, and at the time we are narrating, passing a vacation at home. With romance and enthusiasm commixed in his nature, refined in his feelings, he met with little congeniality of spirit among the rustic yeomanry of his native town; while amid the rugged scenery of the mountains, and deep gloom of the forests, he found his soul’s fondest sympathy. Taking his gun, and sometimes a musical instrument, he often pursued his solitary rambles; in the last of which he so unexpectedly encountered the outlaw’s daughter. That night the sleep of Almirena was feverish. Her dreams were of the fair browed youth and his kind attentions. She awoke wishing he were her brother. Aware of her father’s inveterate aversion to any intercourse with the inhabitants of the vicinity, she said nothing to him of her adventure. But the next day, while he fished below, the hare-hearted girl, now emboldened by a feeling which to her was new, and which she did not probably analyze, again slowly propelled her canoe near the cove. The sound of music struck her ear. She dropped her oar, and taking her guitar, touched its chords. Its notes blended symphoniously in the sylvan recess with the sweet sounds of the young stranger’s flute; while their hearts were awakened to thrill in more exquisite melody. The ravished Clermont ran down to the water’s edge, and with a rich bouquet of flowers, which he held up to her view, prevailed upon her to approach the shore. He kissed the deep blushes from her cheek, as he assisted her to debark; and the stranger lovers sat down together upon the moss covered bank. They did not understand each other’s language. But Nature has a dialect which she teaches all her children. The heart finds utterance not in artificial characters, but in burning expression. Music too speaks in glowing tones to the very ear of feeling. They often met; he of the blue eyed Saxon race, she of the darker Roman origin--both impassioned; he from the gushing enthusiasm of his being, she from the ardent temperament of her southern skies. His love was pure as if she had been his sister. Hers as confiding as if he were her brother. Elfred soon acquired her native tongue, and instructed a ready learner in his own. Herraras had marked the change in his daughter, and forbade her interviews with the young American. She implored; but he was inflexible. He loved his child, but with a love that could not be severed from its object. ‘What music is that?’ as a familiar air came quivering through the latticed window of his cottage, inquired the outlaw, with an emotion that was never kindled except at the voice of his child, or the sound of her guitar. ‘Has a minstrel of our own country wandered hither?’ ‘Shall I call the player, father?’ eagerly asked the child. ‘I would see him.’