and his boat glided with the stream, as he leant back gazing on the clear heaven above. He started, for a wild strain of music floated on the ear. It was interrupted for a moment by the chiming of the clocks that, one mingling with another, told the hour of twelve. They ceased, and the music rose distinct upon the ear. He gazed around and saw, far away in the moonlight, a little boat, with a white and swelling sail. He rowed towards it, and could distinguish the chords of some lute-like instrument, and the tones of a human voice. As he came nearer, he saw that the little bark lay motionless on the river, and that it only held one person. The figure was too much muffled for observation, but the flowing drapery denoted a woman—even if the sweet voice had left it doubtful—Edward remained entranced by the delicious singing. The air was singularly wild, and the words were in a foreign tongue, but he thought in his heart he had never listened to music before. After pausing while
"His spirit like a swan did float
Upon the silver breath of that sweet singing,"
he rowed eagerly towards the mysterious bark. A dense cloud sailed over the moon, and the river for a few moments was shrouded in complete darkness. The moonlight softly broke through the dusky barrier, the dense veil melted into soft and glittering vapour; again the river was flooded with light, but the music had ceased, and the boat was gone. Edward strained his eyes in gazing round the horizon, but in vain.—He listened, but no sound broke the profound stillness till the clocks struck one. He started from the reverie in which he had been indulging, and snatching up the oars, rowed hastily to the landing-place. Fastening his boat, he proceeded hastily along the lane which he had so often trodden. Twice he paused to breathe the cool fresh air, for he was feverish, and his temples were throbbing, while that sweet strange air would not quit his ear. Late as it was, there was a light in the window of Adam Leslie's cottage, and a light step stole along the passage, and a soft hand unbarred the door; a few whispered words were all on which they might venture, for her uncle would have been miserable at the idea of Marion keeping such late vigils. Edward's sleep that night was broken and troubled—that song haunted him. In his dreams he was again upon the water, he drew near to the strange boat, he spoke to its lady, and she raised her veil, and he gazed on a face beautiful beyond all that he had dreamed of beauty. Morning came at last, but he woke weary and fevered.
"How ill you look, dearest Edward," said Marion, when they met at their early breakfast, "you are overworking yourself;" and she gazed upon him with a tender anxiety which left him not a thought but for herself. She walked with him down to the boat, yet he never alluded to the mysterious music of the preceding night, though it still rang in his ear, and mingled with even her sweet voice; a shyness for which he could not himself account prevented his alluding to the subject, he shrank from naming it; and when he reached the river, he cast a hasty and confused glance around, as if it must retain some consciousness. But all was bustle and life, the ships taking advantage of a favourable wind, were under a press of canvass, and boat and barge were in full activity. Children were playing on the banks, and their shrill voices and laughter softened the deeper tones of manhood and business.
