to light a small wax taper, was the work of a moment; and he began to descent the staircase:–childishly eager to discover something–he did not much care what, so long as it was a discovery. It wound to a much greater distance than he had supposed, and, at last, ended at a sort of low arch–the door of which was heavily barred inside. With great difficulty he succeeded in unfastening it; at last it yielded to his efforts, and he opened it. It opened inwards–and even then, though he perceived the open air, he could scarcely make his way through the matted ivy, and the thickly grown shrubs that extended beyond. The moment he arrived beyond their shade he found himself in a position of the castle grounds which he had never seen before; it was a lovely little garden of small extent, girdled in by lofty walls and tall trees–but a fairy land in miniature as far as it extended. The hues of autumn were now upon the boughs–but the evergreens shone with untiring verdure; and various late flowers appeared in that gorgeous colouring which belongs to the last season of earth’s fertility. He wound through a narrow path of green and purple,–for the carefully trained grapes hung in arches overhead, with fruit as rich as those of the eastern garden discovered by Aladdin. Ernest was enchanted with his discovery, and hurried on, when his attention was caught by the sound of singing; it was a female voice of the most touching sweetness. The words were inarticulate, but the air, an old German melody, was exquisitely marked. Ernest followed whither the voice led–he paused amid some laurel trees, and a scene like a picture presented itself to his astonished gaze; it was a bright open grass plot–a very rendezvous for every stray sunbeam,–and in the middle glittered and danced a little fountain which threw up its silvery jets in the air, and then fell over large shells, stones, and rugged pieces of granite, which formed a sort of basin; a number of creeping plants were around it, and one or two lilies grew as if carved in ivory. Seated on one of the huge stones scattered around–singing a low sweet air, or rather humming it, for the words were inaudible, was a female figure. Ernest could see only a very pretty back–and exquisitely shaped head bending forward, and a profusion of black hair hanging down in plaits–the ends somewhat fancifully fastened with a scarlet flower.
Ernest felt that he was an intruder, but he did–as all other young men would have done–remain rooted to the spot. He knew the melody that she was singing to the music of the splashing fountain; he had not heard it for years, but now it came freshly back to his memory haunted with a thousand vague fancies: suddenly the low sweet singing ceased; the maiden rose hastily from her seat, and, turning round, showed the exact likeness of his favourite picture–the Beatrice Cenci. There was not the peculiar head-gear,–for the hair was simply parted back; but everything else was exact in resemblance. There was the same low white forehead, the same black arched eyebrow, the same Grecian outline of face, the same small and scornful lip. She looked towards him, and there were the same large, dark, and melancholy eyes. Surprise made Ernest both speechless and motionless–not so the lovely stranger; she bounded towards him with something between the spring of the startled fawn, and the confidence of an eager child.
“I knew some one would come at last to free me from my weary
