66 stooped her head, and licked them. By Christ," exclaimed he," whom the wormy grave gathered into its arms, to save us from our corruptions, I will do this thing; so may he have mercy on my soul, whether I live or die for the very hares take refuge in her shadow." And shuddering and shutting his eyes, he put his mouth out for her to meet; and he seemed to feel, in his blindness, that dreadful mouth approaching; and he made the sign of the cross; and he murmured internally the name of him who cast seven devils out of Mary Magdalen, that afterwards anointed his feet; and in the midst of his courageous agony, he felt a small mouth, fast and warm upon his, and a hand about his neck, and another on his left hand; and opening his eyes, he dropped them upon two of the sweetest that ever looked into the eye of man.But the hares fled; for they had loved the serpent, but knew not the beautiful human being. Great was the fame of Gualtier, not only throughout the Grecian islands, but on both continents; and most of all in Sicily, where every one of his countrymen thought he had had a hand in the enterprize, for being born on the same soil. The Captain and his crew never came again; for alas, they had gone off without waiting as they promised. But Tancred, Prince of Salerno, came himself with a knightly train to see Gualtier; who lived with his lady in the same place, all her past sufferings appearing as nothing to her before a month of love; and even sorrowful habit had endeared it to her. Tancred, and his knights, and learned clerks, came in a noble ship, every oar having a painted scutcheon over the rowlock and Gualtier and his lady feasted them nobly, and drank to them amidst music in cups of Hippocras—that knightly liquor afterwards so renowned, which she retained the secret of making from her sage father, whose name it bore. And when King Tancred, with a gentle gravity in the midst of his mirth, expressed a hope that the beautiful lady no longer worshipped Diana, Gualtier said, "No indeed, Sir;" and she looked in Gualtier's face, as she sat next him, with the sweetest look in the world, as who should say, "No indeed :I worship thee and thy kind heart."* XLIII. THE ITALIAN GIRL. summer THE sun was shining beautifully one evening, as if he bade sparkling farewell to a world which he had made happy. It seemed also, by his looks, as if he promised to make his appearance again to-morrow; but there was at times a deep breathing western wind, and dark purple clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters at a funeral. The children in a village not far from the metropolis were This story is founded on a tradition still preserved in the Island of Cos, and repeated in old romances and books of travels. See Dunlop's History of Fiction, vol. ii., where he gives an account of Tirante the White. playing however on the green, content with the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female approaching, who gathered them about her by the singularity of her dress. It was not a very remarkable dress; but any difference from the usual apparel of their country-women appeared so to them; and crying out "A French girl! A French girl!" they ran up to her, and stood looking and talking. The stranger seated herself upon a bench that was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But she raised it speedily, and smiled with complacency on the rude urchins. She had a boddice and petticoat on of different colours, and a handkerchief tied neatly about her head with the point behind. On her hands were gloves without fingers; and she wore about her neck a guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. The children thought her very handsome. Any body else would also have thought her very ill, but they saw nothing before them but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, and they asked her to play. "Oh che bei ragazzi!" said she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice;"Che visi lieti !"* and she began to play. She tried to sing too, but her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, saying "Stanca! Stanca !"+ "Sing-do sing," said the children; and nodding her head, she was trying to do so, when * Oh what fine boys! What happy faces! + Weary! Weary! a set of boys came up, and joined in the request. No, no," said one of the elder boys, "she is not well. You are ill a'nt you,-Miss ?" added he, laying his hand upon her's as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him; he scarcely knew whether to take her for a strolling musician, or a lady strayed from a sick bed. "Grazie!" said she, understanding his look" troppo stanca: troppo.* By this time the usher came up, and addressed her in French, but she only understood a word here and there. He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his words, as if they were familiar to her. "She is an Italian;” said he, looking round with a good-natured importance; " for the Italian is but a bastard of the Latin." The children looked with the more wonder, thinking he was speaking of the fair musician. "Non dubito," continued the usher, " quin tu lectitas poetam illum celeberrimum, Tassonem ;† Taxum, I should say properly, but the departure from the Italian name is considerable." The stranger did not understand a word. "I speak of Tasso," said the usher," of Tasso." "Tasso! Tasso!" repeated the fair minstrel,— "oh-conosco-il Tàs-so;" and she hung with an accent of beautiful languor upon the first syllable. * Thanks :—too weary! too weary! + Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. Oh-I know-Tasso. "Yes," returned the worthy scholar, " doubtless your accent may be better. Then of course you know those classical lines Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrosy pianty D'antica selva dal cavallo-what is it ?" The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, like those of an old friend: : Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrose piante Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with a fortunate passage, for it was a favourite one of her country-women. It also singularly applied to her situation. There was a sort of exquisite mixture of clearness in her utterance of these verses, which gave some of the children a better idea of French than they had had; for they could not get it out of their heads that she must be a French girl;—“ Italian-French perhaps," said one of them. But her voice trembled as she went on, like the hand she spoke of. "I have heard my poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy who prevented her from playing. Meantime in the old wood, the palfrey bore Her trembling hands could hold him in no more, |