The Tower of Bernshaw was a small fortified house in the pass over the hills from Burnley to Todmorden. It stood within a short distance from the Eagle Crag; and the Lady Sibyl would often climb to the utmost verge of that overhanging peak, looking from its dizzy height until her soul expanded, and her thoughts took their flight through those dim regions where the eye could not penetrate. One evening she had lingered longer than usual: she felt unwilling to depart--to meet again the dull and wearisome realities of life--the petty cares that interest and animate mankind. She loathed her own form and her own species:--earth was too narrow for her desire, and she almost longed to burst its barriers. In the deep agony of her spirit she cried aloud-- "Would that my path, like yon clouds, were on the wind, and my dwelling-place in their bosom!" A soft breeze came suddenly towards her, rustling the dry heath as it swept along. The grass bent beneath its footsteps, and it seemed to die away in articulate murmurs at her feet. Terror crept upon her, her bosom thrilled, and her whole frame was pervaded by some subtle and mysterious influence. "Who art thou?" she whispered, as though to some invisible agent. She listened, but there was no reply; the same soft wind suddenly arose, and crept to her bosom. "Who art thou?" she inquired again, but in a louder tone. The breeze again flapped its wings, mantling upwards from where it lay, as if nestled on her breast. It mounted lightly to her cheek, but it felt hot--almost scorching--when the maiden cried out as before. It fluttered on her ear, and she thought there came a whisper-- "I am thy good spirit." "Oh, tell me," she cried with vehemence: "show me who thou art!"--a mist curled round her, and a lambent flame, like the soft lightning of a summer's night, shot from it. She saw a form, glorious but indistinct, and the flashes grew paler every moment. "Leave me not," she cried; "I will be thine!" Then the cloud passed away, and a being stood before her, mightier and more stately than the sons of men. A burning fillet was on his brow, and his eyes glowed with an ever-restless flame. "Maiden, I come at thy wish. Speak!--what is thy desire."