curls! Kisses too! Wicked Blanche, to waste on a dumb animal what, I
heartily hope, many a good Christian would be exceedingly glad of! Juba
struggles in vain, and is borne off! I don't think that those eyes can
have taken the fierce turn, and Roland's eagle nose can never go with
that voice, which has the coo of the dove.

I leave my hiding-place and steal after the Voice and its owner. Where
can she be going? Not far. She springs up the hill whereon the lords of
the castle once administered justice,--that hill which commands the land
far and wide, and from which can be last caught the glimpse of the
westering sun. How gracefully still is that attitude of wistful repose!
Into what delicate curves do form and drapery harmoniously flow! How
softly distinct stands the lithe image against the purple hues of the
sky! Then again comes the sweet voice, gay and carolling as a bird's,--
now in snatches of song, now in playful appeals to that dull four-footed
friend. She is telling him something that must make the black ears stand
on end, for I just catch the words, "He is coming," and "home."

I cannot see the sun set where I lurk in my ambush amidst the brake and
the ruins, but I feel that the orb has passed from the landscape, in the
fresher air of the twilight, in the deeper silence of eve. Lo! Hesper
comes forth; at his signal, star after star, come the hosts,--

"Ch' eran con lui, quando l' amor divino,
Mosse da prima quelle cose belle!"

And the sweet voice is hushed.

Then slowly the watcher descends the hill on the opposite side; the form
escapes from my view. What charm has gone from the twilight? See,