Rheda, all that was not evil slept. But far down in the swamp the light-o'-love will-o'-wisps flitted, and the bats circled around them, dazzled by their misleading brilliancy; and the weird mists of miasma rose up to stalk about the land and poison men and women while they slept. Rheda saw these white-robed ghosts ascending into the clear air, and at last, with a shudder, gave up the hope which she had cherished, and went miserable to her couch.
Yet she did not hate Antar, the hero of her maidenhood. She would have welcomed him again to her arms with all the utter love and confidence of her first happy days with him. He was still her all; and, if he came not, her life and joy were dead. Not even in her dreams did she suffer herself to believe the truth. Her thoughts were ever of him; her one longing was that he should once again wind her to him in his strong embrace, and kiss her with his old passionate love. Had he come she would have asked him no questions. Her heart and her arms
