comes weeping for the death of her nurse Lychorida:  are you resolved to obey me?” Leoline, fearing to disobey her, replied, “I am resolved.”  And so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless Marina doomed to an untimely death.  She now approached, with a basket of flowers in her hand, which she said she would daily strew over the grave of good Lychorida.  The purple violet and the marigold should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while summer days did last.  “Alas, for me!” she said, “poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my mother died.  This world to me is like a lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends.”  “How now, Marina,” said the dissembling Dionysia, “do you weep alone?  How does it chance my daughter is not with you?  Do not sorrow for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me.  Your beauty is quite changed with this unprofitable woe.  Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will spoil them; and walk with Leoline:  the air is fine, and will enliven you.  Come, Leoline, take her by the arm, and walk with her.”  “No, madam,” said Marina, “I pray you let me not deprive you of your servant:”  for Leoline was one of Dionysia’s attendants.  “Come, come,” said this artful woman, who wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leoline, “I love the prince, your father, and I love you.  We every day expect your father here; and when he comes, and finds you so changed by grief from the paragon of beauty we reported you, he will think we have taken no care of you.  Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheerful once again.  Be careful of that excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old and young.”  Marina, being thus importuned, said, “Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire to it.”  As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leoline, “Remember what I have said!”—­shocking words, for their meaning was that he should remember to kill Marina.

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said, “Is the wind westerly that blows?” “South-west,” replied Leoline.  “When I was born the wind was north,” said she:  and then the storm and tempest, and all her father’s sorrows, and her mother’s death, came full into her mind; and she said, “My father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, but cried, Courage, good seamen, to the sailors, galling his princely hands with the ropes, and, clasping to the mast, he endured a sea that almost split the deck.”  “When was this?” said Leoline.  “When I was born,” replied Marina:  “never were waves nor wind more violent.”  And then she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain’s whistle, and the loud call of the master, “Which,” said she, “trebled the confusion of the ship.”  Lychorida had so often recounted to Marina the story of her hapless birth, that these things seemed ever present to her imagination.  But here Leoline interrupted her with desiring her to say her prayers.  “What mean you?” said Marina, who began to fear, she knew not why.  “If you require a little space for prayer, I grant it,” said Leoline;