Chainmail, in speaking to him, there was no envious projection of
brim to intercept the beams of those radiant eyes he had been so
anxious to see unclosed. There was in them a mixture of softness
and brilliancy, the perfection of the beauty of female eyes, such
as some men have passed through life without seeing, and such as no
man ever saw, in any pair of eyes, but once; such as can never be
seen and forgotten. Young Crotchet had seen it; he had not
forgotten it; but he had trampled on its memory, as the renegade
tramples on the emblems of a faith which his interest only, and not
his heart or his reason, has rejected.

Her hair streamed over her shoulders; the loss of the black feather
had left nothing but the rustic costume, the blue gown, the black
stockings, and the ribbon-tied shoes. Her voice had that full soft
volume of melody which gives to common speech the fascination of
music. Mr. Chainmail could not reconcile the dress of the damsel
with her conversation and manners. He threw out a remote question
or two, with the hope of solving the riddle, but, receiving no
reply, he became satisfied that she was not disposed to be
communicative respecting herself, and, fearing to offend her, fell
upon other topics. They talked of the scenes of the mountains, of
the dingle, the ruined castle, the solitary lake. She told him,
that lake lay under the mountains behind her home, and the coracle
and the pass at the extremity, saved a long circuit to the nearest
village, whither she sometimes went to inquire for letters.

Mr. Chainmail felt curious to know from whom these letters might
be; and he again threw out two or three fishing questions, to
which, as before, he obtained no answer.