It was the eve before one of Godolphin's periodical excursions, and it was
Rome that he proposed to visit; Godolphin had lingered about the lake
until the sun had set; and Lucilla, grown impatient, went forth to seek
him. The day had been sultry, and now a sombre and breathless calm hung
over the deepening eve. The pines, those gloomy children of the forest,
which shed something of melancholy and somewhat of sternness over the
brighter features of an Italian landscape, drooped heavily in the
breezeless air. As she came on the border of the lake, its waves lay dark
and voiceless; only, at intervals, the surf, fretting along the pebbles
made a low and dreary sound, or from the trees some lingering songster
sent forth a shrill and momentary note, and then again all became

"An atmosphere without a breath, A silence sleeping there."

There was a spot where the trees, receding in a ring, left some bare and
huge fragments of stone uncovered by verdure. It was the only spot around
that rich and luxuriant scene that was not in harmony with the soft spirit
of the place: might I indulge a fanciful comparison, I should say that it
was like one desolate and grey remembrance in the midst of a career of
pleasure. On this spot Godolphin now stood alone, looking along the still
and purple waters that lay before him. Lucilla, with a light step,
climbed the rugged stones, and, touching his shoulder, reproached him with
a tender playfulness for his truancy.

"Lucilla," said he, when peace was restored, "what impressions does this
dreary and prophetic pause of nature before the upgathering of the storm,
create in you? Does it inspire you with melancholy, or thought, or fear?"

"I see my star," answered Lucilla, pointing to a far and solitary orb,
which hung islanded in a sea of cloud, that swept slowly and blackly