Flora, coldly. "Thou art not like what I thought to see.” A deep gloom settled upon Edwin's brow. "How now, my daughter!" cried her father, turning towards her; "is it thus you receive the man I have chosen for your husband? Edwin, give me your hand, for by Heaven I swear, this night shall she be your bride, or her days shall end in a convent! Nay, Flora, I have sworn it!" "But hear me, my father," she exclaimed; "spare me this night-I have a vow to pay at St. Mary's shrine to-morrow, and after that I will submit to your will." Speak not to me!" replied he, sternly. "I have given my promise; Edwin must decide." 66 "Then I will speak for my son," answered lord Hubert. 66 Flora, the time be your own, for Edwin, I am sure, will not oppose your wish. But in return, Flora, you that we have all loved so well, well, will not certainly refuse him to whom in infancy you were so attached? Come, Edwin, do not frown; let this slight cloud pass away, and be forgotten. Lead the lady to the hall." Edwin took her hand, but it was cold as ice; and as he conducted her to the banquet, the words of flattery and of love which he attempted to pour into her ear were only answered by a deep sigh, while a slow tear trickled over her cheek. The laugh had gone by; the song was over; the banquet was almost done, and one of those moments of profound silence which will sometimes intrude itself into the gayest revels, had succeeded to the long-continued merriment. The apartment was large, and the dim untrimmed lights scarcely served to illumine in a faint degree its extent, when two deep voices were heard singing a kind of wild ditty. Every one listened. First voice. "On his lip there is a stain Water will not wash away, Wine does steep it all in vain. What that stain? Say, brother, say. Second voice." Falsehood there has fixed his mark, First voice. Deep engrimed with many a die, "On his hand there is a spot, Crimson as the break of day, Second voice." Murder's stamp is on it shewn, In tints that neither fade nor fly, 'Tis stain'd with blood too near his own ; But his punishment is nigh. Or the night's eternal pall. What that darkness? Brother, say. Second voice." It is passion snatched from hell, First voice. Avarice, ambition high, Treachery, hatred, malice fell; "Deep thus died with every crime, How he dies? Say, brother, say. Second Second voice." By age nor sickness, sport mor strife, Heaven shall vengeful call his life In angry tempests, fate is nigh." It was silence. Not a word of that boding unearthly song had been lost; and when it was over, all still listened in fearful expectation. At first the cheek of Edwin had turned pale as death, his lip quivered, and his eye closed. But now he recovered himself, and snatching up the cup of wine that stood untasted by his side, he raised it high in his hand."It is our custom abroad," said he, "to drink to our minstrels. Here is to the singers," and he emptied the cup. There were some that with a gay scoff followed his example. But his father looked grave, and many rose and left the table, retiring to meditate over so strange a circumstance. Edwin drank deep, and laughed high; but nothing could restore the smiles that the song had banished; and as one by one stole away from the banquet, and quitted the hall, each felt that there was some thing wanting in his breast. Hope had raised expectation high, and each had fancied they should find in the heir of lord Hubert, all that the brightest imagination could dream of perfection. Was he handsome?-yes. Was he elegant?—he was so; but still all were disappointed. There was not in his countenance that frank and open glance, that free and generous smile, which had characterized Edwin as a boy; and with his manner, courteous as it was, there appeared blended both pride and suspicion, totally different from the hope that remembrance of his infant days had led them to entertain. The banquet was ended, and Edwin too retired. But what were his feelings from the events of the day? what were his sensations on revisiting that land from which he had been so long absent? whatever they were, they deprived him of rest. The agitation of pleasure, of hope, might have had that effect. But Edwin, though he |