(132)
hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my harp."
She soon returned with it.
"Now, father, what shall I sing? Will you hear the ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?"
"What you please, Matilda."
"Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your friend. Those are the names which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen."
She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect mistress of the instrument. The air which she played was soft and plaintive. Ambrosio, while he listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: with an hand bold and rapid, she struck a few loud martial chords, and thenchanted
