strains of love my soul poured to--ah me! how beautiful was the
fair-haired Mary!"

Again the echo spoke--again all were hushed. The minstrel's voice rose
again; but its tones were not akin to joy.

"Why remember this, deceitful echo? War's blast hath blown, and hushed
are the notes of love. The foe hath polluted my hearth--I wander an
exile. Where, where is Mary?"

The echo faintly but plaintively replied. There were some imagined that
a tear really started to the eye of the singer. He struck the guitar
wildly--his voice became more agitated--he advanced to the extremity of
the balcony.

"My sword! my sword! May my right hand be withered ere it forget to
grasp its hilt! One blow for freedom. Freedom--sweet as was the
lip--Yes! I'll revenge my Mary!"

Schezer paused, apparently overcome by his emotion. The echo wildly
replied, as if registering the patriot's vow. For a moment all was
still! A thundering burst of applause ensued.

The mountain music was succeeded by a sweep of guitars, accompanying a
Venetian serenade, whose burthen was the apostrophising the cruelty of
"la cara Nina."

It was near midnight, when all eyes were directed to a ball of fire,
which, rising majestically upward, soared amid the tall elm trees. For a
moment, the balloon became entangled in the boughs, revealing by its