"One thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either I heard
my wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your
voice at present."

"Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you
have reduced yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us
certainty that your wife has been sitting in that spot during
every moment of your absence. You have heard her voice, you
say, upon the hill. In general, her voice, like her temper, is
all softness. To be heard across the room, she is obliged to
exert herself. While you were gone, if I mistake not, she did
not utter a word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves.
Still it may be that she held a whispering conference with you
on the hill; but tell us the particulars."

"The conference," said he, "was short; and far from being
carried on in a whisper. You know with what intention I left
the house. Half way to the rock, the moon was for a moment
hidden from us by a cloud. I never knew the air to be more
bland and more calm. In this interval I glanced at the temple,
and thought I saw a glimmering between the columns. It was so
faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon
had not been shrowded. I looked again, but saw nothing. I
never visit this building alone, or at night, without being
reminded of the fate of my father. There was nothing wonderful
in this appearance; yet it suggested something more than mere
solitude and darkness in the same place would have done.

"I kept on my way. The images that haunted me were solemn;
and I entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the