Numerous questions followed. Brandon’s memory began to return. Yet, in his efforts to regain knowledge of himself, Beatrice was still the most prominent object in his thoughts. His dream-life persisted in mingling itself with his real life. “But you,” he cried, earnestly--“you, how have you endured all this? You are weary; you have worn yourself out for me. What can I ever do to show my gratitude? You have watched me night and day. Will you not have more care of your own life?” The eyes of Beatrice kindled with a soft light. “What is my life?” said she. “Do I not owe it over and over again to you? But I deny that I am worn out.” Brandon looked at her with earnest, longing eyes. His recovery was rapid. In a few days he was able to go about. Cato procured fish from the waters and game from the woods, so as to save the provisions of the boat, and they looked forward to the time when they might resume their journey. But to Brandon this thought was repugnant, and an hourly struggle now went on within him. Why should he go to England? What could he do? Why should he ever part from her? “Oh, to burst all links of habit, and to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day!” In her presence he might find peace, and perpetual rapture in her smile. In the midst of such meditations as these her voice once arose from afar. It was one of her own songs, such as she could improvise. It spoke of summer isles amidst the sea; of soft winds and spicy breezes; of eternal rest beneath over-shadowing palms. It was a soft, melting strain--a strain of enchantment, sung by one who felt the intoxication of the scene, and whose genius imparted it to others. He was like Ulysses listening to the song of the sirens. It seemed to him as though all nature there joined in that marvelous strain. It was to him as though the very winds were lulled into calm, and a delicious languor stole upon all his senses. “Sweet, sweet, sweet, god Pan, Sweet in the fields by the river, Blinding sweet, oh great god Pan, The sun on the hills forgot to die, And the lily revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream by the river.” It was the [Greek: meligaerun opa], the [Greek: opa kallimon] of the sirens. For she had that divine voice which of itself can charm the soul; but, in addition, she had that poetic genius which of itself could give words which the music might clothe. Now, as he saw her at a distance through the trees and marked the statuesque calm of her classic face, as she stood there, seeming in her song rather to soliloquize than to sing, breathing forth her music “in profuse strains of unpremeditated art,” the very beauty of the singer and the very sweetness of the song put an end to all temptation.