“And if she has culled the sweets of a milder region,” said De Valette, “it is only to form a garland for one, who is worthy of the fairest flowers that blossom in the gardens of paradise.”

“Very well, and quite poetic, monsieur; your Pegasus is in an ambling mood to-night; but have a care that he do not throw you, as he did, of old, the audacious mortal who attempted to soar too high.  And I pray you will have more regard to the truth, in future, and not scandalize the evening star, by bringing it into your performance so out of season; it may have shone upon the vineyards of Provence, but it is long since it glittered in our northern hemisphere.”

“Have you done, my gentle mentor?” asked De Valette, in an accent of vexation.

“Not quite; I wish to know whether you, or the melodious screech-owl, represent the tuneful bird of night, alluded to in the aforesaid stanzas?  I have heard no other who could pour forth such exquisite notes, since my destiny brought me hither.”

“And it will be long ere you hear me again,” said De Valette, angrily.  “I shall be careful not to excite your mirthful humor again, at my own expense!”

“Now you are not angry with me, I hope, Eustace,” she said, with affected concern; “you well know, that I admire your music exceedingly; nay, I think it unrivalled, even by the choice psalmody of our worthy chaplain; and as to the poetry, I doubt if any has yet equalled it, in this our ancient settlement of St. John’s.”

“Farewell, Lucie,” said De Valette; “when I waken you again”—­

“Oh, you did not waken me,” interrupted Lucie, I will spare your conscience that reproach; had I gone to rest, I should scarcely have risen, even had a band of fairies tuned their tiny instruments in the moonlight, beneath my window.  But, go now, Eustace,—­yet stay, and tell me first, if we part in charity?”

“Yes, it must be so, I suppose; I was vexed with you, Lucie, but you well know that your smiles are always irresistible.”

“Well, you will allow that I have been very lavish of my smiles to-night, Eustace; so leave me now, lest I begin to frown, by way of variety.  Adieu!”

She immediately closed the window, and De Valette turned away, playing carelessly on his flute as he retired.

“Thank heaven! he is gone;” was the mental exclamation of Stanhope, whose impatience and curiosity were painfully exercised by this protracted conversation; for he had retreated from the window, at its commencement, to avoid the possibility of hearing, what was not probably intended to reach the ears of a third person.  “Would any but a favored lover,” he thought, “be admitted to such an interview?” The idea was insupportable; he traversed his apartment with perturbed and hasty steps, and it was not till long after De Valette retired, that he sought the repose of his pillow, and even then, in a state of mind which completely banished slumber from his eyes.