Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,
The lover's one for me. I could expire
To hear a man, with bristles on his chin,
Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and arched brows,
Which talk of trickling tears that never fall.
Let's have it o'er again.

J.S. KNOWLES.


The meditations of Stanhope were suddenly interrupted by the loud
barking of a dog, which lay in his kennel below the window; and it was
presently answered by a low, protracted whistle, that instantly quelled
the vigilant animal's irritation. Arthur mechanically raised his head,
to ascertain who was intruding on the silence of that lonely hour, and
saw a figure approaching, with quick, light footsteps, which a glance
assured him was M. de Valette. He was already near the building, and
soon stopped beneath a window in a projecting angle, which he appeared
to examine with great attention. Arthur felt a painful suspicion that
this casement belonged to Luciè's apartment, and, as it was nearly
opposite his own, he drew back, to avoid being observed, though he
watched, with intense interest, the motions of De Valette. The young
Frenchman applied a flute to his lips, and played a few notes of a
lively air,--then, suddenly breaking off, he changed the measure into
one so soft and plaintive, that the sounds seemed to float, like aerial
harmony, upon the stillness of the night. He paused, and looked
earnestly toward the window: the moon shone brightly against it, but all
was quiet within, and around, while he sang, in a clear and manly voice,
the following serenade: