'But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda. . . .'

'Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem
inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?'

'How? I knew not that you understood Music.'

'Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you
for eight and forty 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